


Chicken Soup for the Ineffable Soul

by DaniGetYourGun (SharkbaitHooHaHa)



Series: Drabble Collections for the Ineffable Soul [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-09-27 06:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 50
Words: 21,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkbaitHooHaHa/pseuds/DaniGetYourGun
Summary: Ficlets from tumblr that are too small for their own thing.Only warm and fluffy stuff here, folks.





	1. Threadbare Heart

For the last ten or so years, Crowley has felt an odd sort of affinity with Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The part along the front center, especially. It was there where the fabric betrayed its age. The worn and frayed threads told stories of frequent visitations from round fingers working and unworking the buttons.

Aziraphale was an angel with a threadbare waistcoat.

Crowley was a demon with a threadbare heart.

It had seen a lot of use, his heart. It showed it’s wear around the edges, where a familiar feeling had worried it’s way across it, wearing down the edges like anxious fingers with a lucky coin.

“Angel?” he asked one night as he lay with his head in Aziraphale’s lap while the angel read and carded his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale intoned, his attention still largely focused on the words on the page in front of him.

With his head in Aziraphale’s lap he could see up close just how battered the fabric actually was. “Your waistcoat. Why don’t you replace it?”

Aziraphale’s fingers stilled in his hair. “Oh, you know me,” he answered. “I do get so attached to these old things.”

“Then why not miracle it?” Crowley pressed. “Make it better? Make it new.”

“Oh, my dear, while I could certainly make it new I could never make it better. It’s perfect just as it is.

"It’s falling apart, Angel,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, well it is my favorite. Besides, with proper care, it’ll hold up. It’s like an old book, one that has been read many times. The wear and tear is just a sign that it’s been well-loved. I’d take an old book over a new one any day.”

_Well-loved_, Crowley mused. Could the same be said for his tattered heart? It had been quite painful, at first, loving and not knowing if he was loved in return. For his heart loved Aziraphale with all that it was. And it loved well.

He wouldn’t trade it, he realized as Aziraphale’s fingers resumed their movement through his hair. Even if he hadn’t ended up here, even if he had kept loving Aziraphale by himself for another six millennia more, it was worth it.

What good would Aziraphale’s waistcoat be if it were kept perfect and preserved but never worn?

And what good would his heart do him if it were kept in the dark and the cold, never loving Aziraphale?

_No good at all,_ Crowley decided, smiling softly to himself.


	2. Wanting

Crowley was used to wanting.

Answers from a god.

A place to call home.

For his love to be returned.

He was so used to wanting that he had entirely forgotten what it was to receive.

\---

"You... you what?" he asked.

Aziraphale looked at him, smiled at him, and he looked so beautiful, so serene, so calm. How could he be so calm when Crowley's world felt like it was tilting on its axis?

"I love you, too," Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley blinked at him dumbly. Somehow, in every outcome to this scenario that he had run through in his mind, he had never dared to imagine one where the angel loved him back.

"In the-" he nearly choked on the question, but he had to know. "In the angelic 'love all of God's creations' way?"

Aziraphale's eyebrows met on his forehead and he reached out to cover Crowley's hand with his own. The gesture was so sweet, so gentle that something within Crowley seemed to crack and he _ached_ and a choked, broken noise escaped his throat.

"In the 'we're on our own side' way, my darling."

_My darling_. Crowley's pulse thundered in his ears, and he moved without meaning to, as if gravity itself was pulling him closer to Aziraphale and then he was in the angel's arms and there were lips on his mouth and arms clinging to him tightly and fingers tangled in his clothes and in his hair and he _wanted_ and Aziraphale _wante__d, too, _and for the first time in a long time he was able to _have_.

\---

Waking up in the flat above Aziraphale's bookshop was Crowley's new favorite thing. Sometimes he woke with the angel in his arms, sometimes he woke alone, but to the sounds of Aziraphale moving around downstairs, but each time, each and _every_ time waking up in that flat was perfection. There was no place else he'd rather be.

All of his favorite things were here, his plants, his astrology books, his angel...

But it took Aziraphale smiling at him one day, after he returned from a reckless drive about the city for him to put a name to it.

"Welcome home, my dear."

_Home_.

\---

_Show me a great plan. _That was what he had said.

He didn't know about a _great_ plan, but he saw_ a _plan.

He saw a cottage. He saw a countryside. He saw a shelf covered with both books and plants. He saw two mugs on a table during a rainstorm. He saw sunny days spent in a garden with a trowel or a book.

He saw eternity. Not with _The Sound of Music_and celestial harmonies, but with hot coacoa, and plant misters, and old records, and love, and love, and _love_.

He saw a future with Aziraphale and he couldn't think of any greater plan.

\---

Crowley was used to having.

He had an angel, and a cottage to call home, and plans for the future.

Crowley was so used to having that he had entirely forgotten _how_ to want.


	3. Lucky

“Angel,” Crowley said, draping his entire body across the desk where Aziraphale was reading. “Angel, let’s go somewhere.”

Aziraphale managed to free his book from where it had been trapped under Crowley’s backside and laid it gently across the demon’s stomach. “Where would you like to go, dearest?” he asked, idly turning a page.

Crowley made a big show of thinking it over, complete with many loud ‘hmm'ing and 'umm'ing noises only to finally settle on, “Out!”

Aziraphale chuckled softly to himself. “You know, it has just occurred to me,” he mused, shutting his book. “You are very lucky I love you.”

Crowley yelped and fell off the desk in a mess of tangled limbs and indignation.

Aziraphale stood to grab his coat and just barely managed to make out a muffled “I love you, too,” from the wreckage of Crowley piled by his desk.

The angel smiled fondly and shrugged his jacket on before turning the shop sign to 'closed.’ “My dear, if you’ve changed your mind, you’re very welcome to stay here by yourself.”

Not even a second later, Crowley was by his side, offering his arm for Aziraphale to take. “And miss the chance to show everyone how lucky I am to be loved by you?” He pressed a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Never.”


	4. Three Words

Three words. Three simple, little words. That was all it took for Crowley's world to fall apart.

"I'm in love," Azirphale had said, a soft smile gracing his lips.

"You-- Wot?"

Crowley had always imagined himself to be the heroine of his own story, and he had assumed that one day, Prince Aziraphale would notice him dancing at the ball and-- okay, that was a rubbish analogy. Crowley had imagined that he was the vampire and that the human girl, Aziraphale, would choose him over the werewolf and-- no, that wasn't quite right, either. Crowley had thought he was Cosette, when it turned out that all along he was Eponine singing in the rain about a love he'd never-- no, Eponine died in the end, and Crowley didn't particularly fancy that. Point was, he loved Aziraphale and finding out that Aziraphale was in love with someone else was absolutely destroying him.

"I'm in love," Aziraphale repeated, his smile widening

"With who?" Crowley asked numbly.

"It's 'whom,' dear boy," Aziraphale corrected automatically.

Crowley's mind wasn't quite there yet. "Hoom?" He didn't know anyone named Hoom.

"Yes, sorry, force of habit," Azirphale's hands worried at his napkin as he fidgeted nervously in his seat. "Um, shall I tell you about them?"

Did Crowley want to hear about them? Of course not. "Y-yeah, sure."

"Well, they're clever, and kind, though they would never let me say it," Aziraphale began, and he just looked so happy that Crowley knew he had no choice but to just step back and wish him the best, his own feelings be damned. "-and they're devilishly good looking, heh, that's a joke, see, because they're a demon, obviously--"

"Is it Beelzebub?" he blurted, mentally kicking himself.

Aziraphale stared at him dumbly for a solid two and half minutes.

"Wha- Is it Beel- _No_, Crowley, it's you!"

It was at that moment that Crowley's brain apparently decided it would be a good time to bring out the classic 'fish on dry land' impression, as it was now Crowley's turn to stare at the angel, his mouth opening and closing uselessly.

"I thought I was being obvious, why in the world would I be in love with _Beelzebub_?!"

"Why in the world would you be in love with _me_?" Crowley countered.

"Well, why wouldn't I be?" Aziraphale asked. "You're smart, funny, charming-- Crowley where are you going?"

This was too much. Hearing Aziraphale say he loved him was already enough of a shock, he couldn't handle the angel then going on to list every single thing he liked about him. He did feel like he had forgotten something, though...

Oh, right! Said embarrassing angel.

"Come along, Angel," he said, grabbing Aziraphale's hand and miracling more than enough money to cover the bill onto the table.

"You don't have to tell me you love me, too, of course," Aziraphale said brightly as he followed after him. "I can _feel_ it." Now he just sounded smug.

"Shut up."


	5. Free Fall

Aziraphale fell in love slowly. That was probably for the best, since once he started, he just couldn't seem to stop. This soft, gentle way of falling was disarming enough, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to be hurtling head over heels at breakneck speed.

No, Aziraphale fell in love the same way some people say you should boil a frog, though Aziraphale couldn't fathom why such an action would be neccessary. Frogs legs tasted best when sauteed, in his opinion, but that was hardly the point. The point _was_, that by the time Aziraphale realized he was in hot water, like perhaps, at the moment when a certain demon saved the precious books that in the excitement of things he _himself_ had entirely forgotten about, he was already well and truly fucked.

He was mostly certain that Crowley loved him back, but Crowley seemed to fall just like he drove his beloved Bentley-- with one foot pressed firmly to the gas pedal and both eyes focused on Aziraphale rather than what was ahead. Aziraphale feared he was far too liable to crash going about in such a manner, and he couldn't bear to be responsible for Crowley getting himself hurt, so he protected him in the only way he knew how-- by pushing him away.

How sad it must seem, an angel kept from soaring only by the fear of being unable to keep up.

Much to his surprise, though, Crowley never turned his back. He stayed right there, side by side with Aziraphale, facing towards the edge and patiently waiting for him to be ready to take the leap.

And when they did?

When they returned to the bookshop after toasting 'to the world' and Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by that stupid tie and mashed their lips together in a way that was as messy as it was eager and when Crowley ran his fingers through his hair and held him so tightly as if letting go would mean drowning and when they put aside all that fear and worry and let themselves _love_, love truly, love deeply, and love well?

It turns out that in a free fall, there's no such thing as too fast or too slow. No one is left behind. No one hurries ahead. They fall at exactly the same speed.


	6. Anytime's a Good Time When I Spend It With You

Aziraphale loved spending mornings with Crowley. He loved those early hours that he got to spend reading in bed with the demon curled up, asleep, by his side. He loved how the sunlight would creep in, setting copper hair aflame with a vast range of oranges and reds. He loved how one amber eye would crack open and a lazy smile would stretch across his lover's face when he found Aziraphale still next to him. He loved how Crowley, his voice still rough with sleep, would murmur _good morning_ and press his face into Aziraphale's side, chasing those few extra moments of sleep.

He loved how Crowley would insist on cooking breakfast, even though it would be faster and easier to just miracle something together. He loved watching Crowley move about the kitchen, so at ease, cracking eggs and chopping vegetables with a grace and serenity he so rarely would let others see. He loved how Crowley would wait for him to take that first bite, eagerly anticipating his reaction. He loved the smile that would break out when Aziraphale would reassure him that it tasted _positively divine, just like always, dear._

Aziraphale loved spending afternoons with Crowley. He loved sitting in the greenhouse, on the beige colored couch that Crowley insisted wasn't there for him even though they both knew it was. He loved pretending to read while he actually watched Crowley tend to his plants; despite all the yelling and the threats, there was a gentleness to him then, a softness about him that only Aziraphale and the plants got to see.

He loved later, when they would go inside and Crowley would rest his head on his lap while he _actually_ read and they would stay like that for hours, content just to share in each other's company.

Aziraphale loved evenings spent with Crowley. He loved when they would get in the Bentley and drive through the countryside to some new little restaurant that Aziraphake wanted to try. He loved how Crowley, despite his natural proclivities, would drive slow enough that Aziraphale could take in the view, just so they could spend more time together.

He loved when they'd come back home and share a drink. He loved the wine-drunk blush on Crowley's cheeks, and the way his mind would pick the most random topic and just chase it until Crowley was passionately gesticulating on some topic that he clearly didn't know that much about, but had decided in that moment he cared about with every fiber if his being. He loved when they would sober up and Crowley would yawn, stretching his long limbs in every direction, and beckon him to _come to bed, Angel, you can read whatever that is up there._

Aziraphale loved nights spent with Crowley. In the dark, there was a side of the demon that rarely made an appearance in the light, a side that needed rather than served, that was vulnerable and so open, so soft, and-

"Angel," Crowley interrupted, annoyance evident in his tone.

Aziraphale looked down at the demon in his lap. "Yes, my dear?"

"I asked you what your favorite time of day was."

"Yes?"

"You just described an _entire day_! That doesn't help me_ at all_!"

"I'm sorry, dearest. It's just any time spent with you is my favorite."

Crowley covered his face with both his hands. "That's disgusting," he mumbled into his palms. "You're disgusting."

Aziraphale chuckled. "You know, after all this time waiting for me to catch up, I would have thought you'd be better prepared to handle affection."

"Shut up." Crowley's voice was still muffled by his hands. "You're the worst. I changed my mind, I'm not going to propose to you, after all."

Aziraphale's heart soared. Is that what this conversation had been about? "That's probably for the best," he said, struggling to keep his voice neutral as he reached into his breast pocket. "Considering I've been wanting to do _this_ for quite a while now."

"Wanting to do wha-" Crowley paused and lifted his hand to study the small, gold band Aziraphale had casually slipped onto his ring finger. "Ngk."

"Is that a yes?"

A nod. "Ngk."

"Fantastic. Why don't we skip the rest of why I like spending afternoons with you and the first part of why I like spending evenings with you and celebrate with a bottle of- _oh_!"

Crowley may have still been at a loss for words, but that didn't stop him from sitting up and proceeding to thoroughly kiss the sense out of Aziraphale until the angel was as speechless as he was.


	7. Prayer

Crowley is a prayer waiting to be answered, and Aziraphale is finally ready to let the hymns spill from his lips.

_Crowley_. It is a whisper, reverent and devout.

Amber eyes meet his own, that ever-present silent plea burning within.

_Aziraphale_? There is worship in the way Crowley says his name. How did it take him so long to realise?

He presses their foreheads together. _I'm here._ If this is to be blasphemous, then may the profanities coat his tongue._ I'll always be here_.

Hesitant fingers reach up to touch his face, and their gentleness moves him in ways he cannot explain. He doesn't even realize there are tears until soft thumbs are wiping them away. _No, no, no._ A broken supplication._ I'm sorry, Angel. Please don't cry_.

But how can he not? Many a human has openly wept at the sight of divinity. And is this not divine? To be in the presence of such a love?

It's an unassuming love, an offering presented for thousands of years. It's a promise made in silence with no expectation of reciprocation.

He brings those fingers to his lips and lays kisses upon them one by one as a sign of his own fidelity. Eventually and with veneration, he will lay his devotion on every inch of skin, but this is as fine of a beginning as any.

_Kiss me,_ he breathes, and soft lips press against his temple. _No_, he says with a laugh. _Kiss me_. And he brings those lips against his own and Crowley sighs against him.

_Not too fast?_

_No_. He has never been so certain._ Not too fast._


	8. To Love the Sky

There once was an angel who loved the sky more than anything. He would spend hours gazing upon it, knowing that iy would be forever out of his reach, but content to just spend the rest of his days loving it from afar.

He gave it gifts, when he could. He formed suns and planets and sent them up to keep the sky company. And the sky cherishef them all and held them in its warm embrace.

When the angel Fell, he Fell looking towards the heavens, and even as he burned he knew he would be alright. He wound gladly suffer all the tortures of Hell, so long as his sky remained within his sight.

There was a demon who loved the sky more than anything.

And there was an angel, with eyes of every shade of blue that the sky had ever beheld. There was an angel with curls as soft as clouds and as bright as moonlight. There was an angel whose warm skin had been kissed a thousand times by the sun. There was angel with wings that blazed bright with the light of the thousands of stars that had been gifted over the years.

There was an angel, created to be within reach, created to be held, touched, kissed. There was an angel created to be loved and to love in turn.

And there was a demon, who loved and was loved by the sky more than anything.


	9. Grace

Crowley liked churches, and Aziraphale pretended that he didn’t know.

He never went inside, save for that special occasion in the 1940’s, but he would linger by the doorways and windows, anywhere he could hear the praise and the love spilling out into the open air.

Aziraphale had always been aware. After all, it had been he who had proudly showed Crowley (then Crawley) when the humans had first started building places of worship.

He didn’t miss the way his friend’s expression went raw and unguarded, some old wound reopening below the surface, though he never said anything. He figured it best to let the demon have his privacy, especially when he had drifted closer to the building and, like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsed to his knees. He let Crowley pass it off as a stumble instead of pointing it out for what it was.

Aziraphale didn’t know if Crowley prayed. He didn’t know if God listened if he did.

It wasn’t until he heard Crowley sing that he finally began to understand.

They were in the bookshop. Just the two of them. Aziraphale was doing inventory when the words, deep and melancholic drifted to his ears.

Crowley had to know Aziraphale could hear, but Aziraphale knew they would never speak of it.

But the words of Amazing Grace had never sounded more sacred than they did being poured from Crowley’s lips.


	10. Hymns

Crowley sang hymns long forgotten to the choirs of heaven. The lyrics, old and in a language remembered only by those who fought in the first wars, stirred a sense of familiarity deep within Aziraphale's soul, though try as he might, he could not seem to recall the songs with any sense of accuracy.

They were beautiful, though, made even more so by the sweet, low timbre of Crowley's voice, and honestly, Aziraphale couldn't remember ever hearing any sound that moved him more. For when Crowley sang, he did so with such reverence, such adoration, that it was hard to believe the crooning came from one who had Fallen.

Though, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it was _because_ of his Fall that Crowley was able to insert more emotion into the words than any angel ever had. After all, he knew the taste of loss, knew the bitter sting of rejection. How many angels could say the same?

Crowley sang of love, but he sang of a love that had been lost, and of promises that were conditional.

As the millenia progressed, Crowley began to pick up hymns composed of human words, as well. In fact, he seemed to devote even more of a fondness to those than he did the old ones.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, then, when he started singing songs of a different kind of devtion, after the world didn't end. These were songs about a love that was as everlasting and as it was unconditional.

And though they were more bebop than hymns (though Crowley insisted that they were most definitely _neither_) Aziraphale found that it was the newer songs he liked best. Though, how could he not, when Crowley looked him in the eye and sang things like_ I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while you're in the world_.


	11. I Choose You

Some people believe in soul mates. Crowley was not one of those people. In fact, he knew with utmost certainty that God did not make _that one person_ who was perfect for you in every way. He had been around since the beginning, after all. Since the _beginning_ of the beginning, even. She didn’t do it for Her humans, and she _certainly_didn’t do it for Her angels.

Which was what made Aziraphale so special. You see, Aziraphale was Crowley’s match in _every_single way.

By all rights, it shouldn’t have been possible. And yet…

Aziraphale didn’t believe in soul mates. In fact, he had asked the Almighty about it once, when he was still New. He remembered feeling the warmth of Her smile as She explained that She had considered it, initially, but then scrapped the idea in favor of letting the humans _choose_ who to love, instead.

_Wouldn’t that be better?_ She had asked. _To know that out of all the people in the world, somebody _chose_ you?_

He hadn’t understood, then. But he did now.

Crowley claimed they were perfect for each other. And while it was true that they did compliment each other in many ways, there were just as many ways in which they didn’t _quite_ fit.

But Aziraphale understood. When Crowley said_you’re perfect for me,_ he was really saying _you’re perfect _to_ me._

He was saying, _out of everyone in the world, I am most glad that I met you._

And he was saying _I choose you. Again and again, over everything, over the world, I choose you._

And as for Aziraphale, well…

Crowley was his match in _every_ single way.


	12. Unsaid

Aziraphale could fill entire books with words he’s left unsaid. If he transcribed every utterance he’d bitten back on his tongue, he’d find that he had covered enough pages that he could line every bookshelf he owned. Every thought, every confession, every phrase turned to ink, and he could fill an entire library.

He could compose lengthy verses from just that one simple phrase: _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He could scrawl it onto every inch of his skin, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Entire volumes dedicated to the depth of his affections, and still they would only skim the surface.

A bible on copper hair, an ode to amber eyes, poems, soliloquies, hymns, and prose on Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, and still…

His regrets are shelved most prominently. Old leather, cracked spines, and worn pages speak to frequent visitations and the reliving of painful memories. Here, the pages are filled with things he _had_ said, only to be scribbled out and written over with what he _wishes_ he had said instead._<strike>You go too fast for me</strike>. But now I’m ready to catch up. <strike>I don’t even like you.</strike> I do, I do, it’s a lie, I do, so much, I do. <strike>There is no our side.</strike> There has only ever been our side. Our side. We’re on our own side. You and me. Our side. _But mostly these chapters are just_ I’m sorry I can’t tell you. I’m sorry I’m afraid. I’m sorry, so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-_

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, when they return to the bookshop after the Ritz. “I should have told you every day since time began, I love you Crowley, I love you with my whole being and it’s too much, it’s going to break me, but I don’t know how to stop, I just love you so much, I love you, I love you, I love you-” The words are spilling from the pages and from his tongue and now that he’s started reading aloud he finds he can’t stop and the truth pours out of him like wine overflowing its glass and he should stop, this will stain, it will never wash out, but he can’t, he doesn’t _want_ to, and the words just keep coming and coming and coming and-

The stream only ceases when warm lips staunch the flow and suddenly all those words unsaid, all the metaphors that felt insignificant when compared to the immense scale of his feelings, don’t seem to matter anymore. So obsessed was he with his books and his words, he completely forgot there were other ways to communicate.

So, he presses back against Crowley, tangles his fingers in his hair and he confesses everything. And, finally, it is enough.


	13. Giggly

Aziraphale had a problem, and that problem wore skinny jeans and strutted around like he was more limb than substance. More to the point, said problem was currently draped across his sofa like a throw blanket that had decided to go through a tacky goth phase and carrying on about… something that Aziraphale was honestly too distracted to pay attention to. Even _more_ to the point, said problem had, just ten minutes prior, in the middle of his drunken ranting, uttered the words, ‘you know, that’s why I love you,’ and then continued on the subject (ducks? dolphins?) as though he hadn’t just flipped Aziraphale’s world upside down. In the middle of his own bookshop, no less, and wasn’t that _rude_?

Truthfully, there was no reason for him to be panicking like this. Crowley loved him. He _knew_ Crowley loved him. And likewise, he loved Crowley, and Crowley knew he loved him.

So, really, the fact that he had instantly sobered up and turned into a blushing mess was a bit of an overreaction on his part. They’ve been on dates, they’ve kissed, they’ve done _more_ than kissing for heaven’s- hell’s- _somewhere’s_ sake! There was no reason for his heart to be trying to beat its way out of his chest or for the smile threatening to split his face in two while Crowley was none the wiser.

And yet, here he was, going positively giddy all because Crowley had said lo- lo- the ’_L’ word._ But that was just it… _they had never said it aloud before._

And- oh no- it seemed Crowley had finally caught on to his mood, as he had stopped talking and was studying Aziraphale, confusion clear in his uncovered eyes. Well, now Aziraphale would never hear the end of it.

“Angel, what’s got you all…” he waved a hand vaguely at Aziraphale’s general state of being, trying to find a suitable word to describe the odd mood the angel had suddenly started displaying. “Giggly?”

Aziraphale mentally balked. He was not _giggly_. No matter, he could set the record straight later. “You said you love me,” he explained, a small titter escaping his lips. Oh no. He _was_ giggly.

But- hang on something wasn’t quite right. Crowley, instead of rolling his eyes or blushing or telling him to 'shut up’ or any of the other things Aziraphale expected him to do, went pale instead.

Aziraphale’s jolly mood was immediately replaced with concern. “Crowley? My dear boy, what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t mean it,” Crowley choked out, his voice strained.

Aziraohale felt his heart plummet. Had he really misjudged things between them so greatly? “Didn’t-”

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” Crowley continued, a hint of desperation coating his tone. “Please, Aziraphale!” Suddenly Crowley was on his knees in front of the baffled angel. “We can just keep doing what we’ve been doing. My feelings won’t get in the way, I promise!”

…Oh.

Oh, dear.

It seemed Aziraphale _had_ misjudged things, though not in the way he had initially thought.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale gently reached out to cup Crowley’s face in his hand. The demon leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, but then seemed to remember himself and pulled back.

Aziraphale’s heart broke. He loved Crowley so much. Did he really not know?

Aziraphale could sense love, and he had taken that ability for granted, forgetting that Crowley had lost it long ago. Even so, though, Aziraphale had thought that he’d made his devotion clear.

It seemed that he would just have to speak plainly.

“I love you, Crowley. I’m sorry if I haven’t made you believe it, but I do. With everything that I am.”

Crowley looked up at him, his eyes wide and glassy. “But… you laughed… You were giggly.”

“Darling, _no_!” Aziraphale slid off the chair and to his knees to be level with Crowley. “I was _not_ actually giggly, but if I were-”

“You were,” Crowley interjected, a bit of his usual self reappearing in his expression as a tenuous smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Aziraphale huffed fondly. “-_If_ I were, it would have been because I was happy to hear you say so.”

“…Yeah?”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale confirmed, taking Crowley’s hands in his own and bringing the demon’s palms to his lips to kiss one. “Completely…” Then the other. “Deliriously…” He leaned in and pressed his lips to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Happy.”

“And giggly,” Crowley added, angling his head to catch Aziraphale’s lips to give him a proper kiss.

“And giggly,” Aziraphale conceded.

Crowley pulled back from the kiss and looked at Aziraphale, beaming at him with the same radiant smile he had given him atop Eden. “You love me,” he said smugly.

Aziraphale grinned back. (It’s also possible that he may have giggled.) “Yes. And you love me.”

Ah. There it was. There was the eye roll and the blush that Aziraphale had expected the first time. “Psh. Shut up.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to be smug. “Make me.”

And Crowley did.


	14. Flicker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bumped the rating up to T on this just to be safe. 
> 
> Also. I kinda messed up the prompt, the anon suggested first kiss supernatural shenanigans but I read it wrong and went 'yes, this absolutely happens every time.'

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbled into the demon’s lips as they kissed. “You’re doing it again.”

Crowley cracked open one eye to glance at the lamp overhead. “’S'not me,” he said, laying kisses along the angel’s jaw. “’S'you.”

Aziraphale huffed in what was supposed to be annoyance, but his shaking breath turned it into a sigh. “My dear, if you’re suggesting that I am unable to- _oh_\- to control myself I- oh, _yes_-”

The lights flared again and Crowley chuckled againt Aziraphale’s collarbone. “Angel, ’m not _suggesting_ anything.” A crash sounded from across the room as a stack of books fell over (“It wasn’t me!” Aziraphale insisted,) and Crowley paused in his ministrations. “Should we stop?” he wondered idly.

Aziraphale managed to startle a sound out of Crowley as he grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him back in for another kiss. “Don’t you _dare_.”

Crowley let out a breath that was half laugh, half something else. “So _needy_.”

He had managed to relieve the angel of his waistcoat and was working on the buttons to his shirt (“Sometimes I think you make this difficult on purpose.” “Oh, _do_ shut up.”) when the phone rang.

“Ignore it,” Crowley said as Aziraphale reflexively turned his head towards the sound.

“But-”

“If it’s important, they can leave a voice message.”

“But-” The angel started to protest again but interrupted himself with a sharp gasp as Crowley’s lips closed around a particular spot on his shoulder. “Oh, point taken.”

Crowley gave a pleased hum as the phone stopped ringing. Just as he completed the nearly insurmountable task of ridding Aziraphale of his shirts, however, it began to ring again. “_Blasted_-”

“I’ll get it,” Aziraphale said, untangling himself from Crowley and standing to pick up the receiver.

“Hello, Fell residence. Oh, Anathema, dear! How are- I beg your pardon?! Bone?!” He waved a hand to shush Crowley as the demon began to laugh loudly. “Oh. Oh, I see. I hadn’t realized- No, no, of course. Oh, no, this is terribly embarrassing, I am so sorr- Yes, of course. Yes, goodbye, dear.”

Aziraphale gently placed the phone back in the cradle and turned to Crowley, his face a deep shade of red and twisting his hands nervously. “Erm, well, it would seem that all the houses along the street have been experiencing power fluctuations-”

Crowley threw back his head and laughed heartily as Aziraphale glared at him.

“Crowley, it’s _not_ funny!” He scolded, crossing the room to tidy the books that had fallen.

“Aw, c'mon, Angel, it’s a little funny.”

Aziraphale gave no response, and focused his attention on shelving the books.

“Angel,” Crowley pleaded. “Angel, c'mere.”

Aziraphale made the mistake of looking over at the demon, and was immediately done in by Crowley’s wide eyes and open arms. His face softened and he placed the rest of the books on the table so that he could rejoin Crowley on the couch.

“What about the power surges?” He asked between placing kisses down his lover’s neck.

Crowley smirked and drew a shudder from the angel as he ran his hands down his sides to rest on his hips. “We’ll blame Newt.”


	15. Bigger than these bones

Crowley was most definitely not human. That fact must be made abundantly clear. His heart had no reason to beat. His lungs had no need to draw breath. His skin should not be able to break into a nervous sweat. He was a demon, and _demons _were above all that.

But no matter how much he tried to remind himself of this simple fact, it did nothing to calm the wild beat of his heart when he saw Aziraphale smile. It did not alleviate the desperate ache in his lungs that led him to gasp for breath when they kissed. It did not dry the clamminess from his palms when Aziraphale gently twined their fingers together.

How ironic was it, that after six whole millenia of suppressing his feelings, it should be his traitorous vessel that gave him away? Outed not by the yearning of his demonic heart, but by the fragility of his human one? Revealed by a blushing face and a dry mouth that tripped and stumbled over words?

In his true form he was a thing to behold; all withering darkness and cold flame; a true horror that was somehow both shapeless and yet possessing infinite rough edges, and yet here he was, bound to this body of softness and warmth (he knows it was not the vessel that had diminished his severity, but it was easier to assign blame than it was to take a real look within.)

It was the same for Aziraphale, he knew. Aziraphale, his fearsome angel of pure sunlight, white hot and blinding; a being both too beautiful and terrifying to perceive with mortal eyes; a thousand heavenly choirs given form and he was subject to the whims of his cage of flesh and bone just as Crowley was.

The two of them, ethereal and occult, light and dark given concious, judgement and temptation, _powerless_ to stop flushing cheeks or butterflies in stomachs and the desperate, aching, unquenchable need, need, _need_ to touch, to feel, to hold, to have, have now, have always, _make you mine_.

These are the desires of humans. These are the desires of an angel and a demon. And finally, finally, after the end of the world they can sate them.


	16. Get Your Ducks in a Row

An angel and a demon were taking a stroll through St. James’ park. This wasn’t unusual. The two had been having clandestine rendezvous at the location for well over two centuries, now. There was, however, something somewhat atypical about this particular occasion.

“Crowley…?” Aziraphale, not for the first time that afternoon, threw a confused glance behind them.

The demon self-consciously hunched in on himself. “Don’t,” he warned.

Aziraphale only prevailed in letting the subject go for a few moments before throwing another curious look over his shoulder. “It’s just-”

“_Don’t_,” Crowley repeated, somehow managing to pull his head down even lower in his shoulders.

They walked in tense silence for another few minutes before Aziraphale finally broke. “For goodness’ sake-”

“_Aziraphale, don’t,_” Crowley growled.

The angel paid him no mind as he stopped in the middle of the path and turned around, forcing Crowley to stop, too. “Crowley, please, would you mind explaining _the ducklings?!_”

Crowley looked everywhere except at the line of four ducklings that had been dutifully trotting behind him for the entire duration of their walk. “What ducklings?”

Aziraphale was growing frustrated. “Crowley!”

“Alright, fine, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, are you happy?”

Aziraphale frowned. “How do you mean?”

“They imprinted on me!”

Aziraphale fixed Crowley with a reproachful look. “Crowley, do not treat me like a fool. I _read_, I know that ducks don’t imprint _on a glance_. You’ve been raising them, haven’t you?”

Crowley could already see the delighted smile threatening to grow on Aziraphale’s face, so glared at the ground, scuffing the path with his shoe. “There was a fox,” he mumbled. “It got their mother.”

Yep. There was the infuriating smile. “What are their names?” Aziraphale asked as he watched the ducklings climb all over each other, each trying to be closest to Crowley.

Crowley scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Angel, I haven’t named them! What do you take me for, some kind of sssap- _Oi_! Brian! What have we said about biting?”

Aziraphale’s grin grew impossibly wider.

“Oh, don’t look so smug!” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Fine, their names are Adam, Wensleydale, Pepper, and Brian.” And then Crowley mumbled something under his breath that Aziraphale couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t catch that last part.”

“And Warlock. He’s too small to keep up with the others, so my neighbor’s keeping an eye on him and _stop looking at me like that!_”

“My apologies, dear,” said Aziraphale, not looking apologetic at all and certainly not changing the way he was looking at Crowley. “Shall we continue, then?” He gestured down the path and the two continued their stroll, the ducklings following happily behind.

—

The seasons changed, as seasons are wont to do, and before they knew it, the leaves were changing and a crisp chill was steadily growing in the air.

An angel and a demon were sitting on a bench in St. James’ park. This wasn’t unusual. The two had been feeding ducks here for over two centuries, now.

Not the particular ducks gathered around them right now, mind you. The demon was bent down to talk softly to them and seemed to be giving them some kind of pep talk.

The ducklings, now fully grown, seemed to be listening with rapt attention as they gently nipped on his fingers.

“Now remember,” Crowley was saying. “You need to look out for each other. I expect to see all five of you back here come springtime, understand?”

The ducks, including Warlock who had grown to be as large as his siblings under Crowley’s care, quacked in affirmation, before clambering up in the demon’s lap to nuzzle under his chin, accept a snack from the angel, then hop back to the ground.

Crowley and Aziraphale watched as the ducks took flight, waiting until they were tiny dots on the horizon before they stood from the bench.

Crowley sniffed, and then coughed angrily into his fist. “Allergies,” he explained.

Aziraphale gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Don’t worry, darling,” he said, placing a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles. “They’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, his voice thick. “I know. They’ll be making a mess of my bathtub again in no time, I’m sure.” His fake annoyance failed to fool the angel, who only smiled.

—

It was indeed no time at all before the telltale signs of spring began to return.

An angel and a demon were taking a stroll through St. James’ park. This wasn’t unusual. Neither were the five fully grown ducks, each with their own cluster of ducklings chattering in their little duck voices, trailing along in the demon’s footstops.


	17. A Sort of Wickedness

There’s a sort of wickedness to his smile, Crowley notices, and he wonders how he didn’t see it from the start. But that’s why they go together so well, isn’t it? Just as Crowley has a little of the light running through his veins, Aziraphale has just a lick of the dark, there below the surface. It shows in his eyes, sometimes, his devilish angel, when he indulges in a particularly scrumptious meal, or when he successfully turns away a customer without selling them anything, or when he scrapes his teeth along that one muscle in Crowley’s neck that makes his breath shudder and his toes curl.

It’s what drew Crowley to him in the first place, even if he didn’t fully understand it back then. It’s what makes him just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, it’s what makes him _Aziraphale_, it’s what makes him the only being in all of existence that Crowley ever truly gave a damn about. Oh, there was also the goodness that Crowley liked about him, for sure.But, if Crowley sauntered vaguely downward, Aziraphale was doing a rather impressive routine of the gavotte (complete with fancy pirouettes and ridiculous high-kicks) right on the very edge. And doesn’t Grace taste sweeter when it’s mixed with just a hint of Blasphemy?

Crowley never did learn how to thwart (why would he?), so the angel was free to run amok with his wiles, and he put them to the best of use. A smile with just enough mischief to make Crowley weak in the knees, those eyes with the gleam of being up-to-no-good and the demon was putty in his hands. And Crowley would be _so good_ to him, for him, whichever he wanted. Sometimes, when evil contested with good, it was just to see if they could take them apart in the most beautiful of ways.

So, here they are, after what should have been the end, a mess of tangled limbs and sweat soaked sheets, and it’s all Crowley can do to keep from laughing when Aziraphale looks up at him through golden lashes and says, “You know, my dear, there’s a sort of warmth to your smile.”


	18. Not Made To Love

Demons are not made to love. That is the only explanation Crowley can come up with for the way he feels ready to come apart at the seams. For the constant ache beneath his ribs. Demons are not made to love, but he loves, and it is destroying him.

Aziraphale, blast him, only laughs when he tells him. And that laugh,_ oh, that laugh_. It twists that thing inside him, makes it surge. He would destroy himself, all for that smile.

“There’s no need for that, my silly demon,” Aziraphale whispers. Silly? Yes, he supposes that’s true. A demon who loves, how silly. “It’s all yours.”

_Oh. Is this how it feels to be blessed?_

This fire will consume him from the inside out, and he is helpless to stop it. Wouldn’t even try. What a beautiful way to go.

“You are not dying.”

He is. He swears it.

“Hush, now, you’re fine.” The sweet press of lips against his.

Oh. Oh, that helps. Do it again.

Another press, more heated this time. Another. And another.

“You know…” Lips against his jaw. “You don’t have to pretend to die for me to kiss you.” Lips against his throat.

But he’s not pretending. He _has_ died.

…And gone to heaven.

He laughs as the pillow hits him in the face.


	19. Where Legends are Born

Crowley walked the streets of legend and saw the world unfold before him.

Later, he would wonder if he could have noticed it, if he had just looked. If he could have seen the myths being born from the rough stone and people going about their lives.

He had no business being on the coast of the land that would one day be known as Turkey, but he had no business being anywhere right now, and had decided it was high time he actually saw this world he had a hand in creating.

He had manage to secure the trust of the royal family (not hard, with that silver tongue of his… okay, it was more a demonic miracle than anything, socializing still wasn’t his strong point) and was currently enjoying the hospitality of one of the finest rooms in the palace. Hey, if he was going to go full tourist, might as well do it with style, right?

This was one of the more impressive of humanity’s cities that he had seen. Surrounded by towering walls, it was a fortress; impenetrable. It housed an amazing showcase of some of the finest art and architecture that existed at this time, and Crowley considered himself fortunate to see it. It was on one of his strolls through the palace, simply admiring the beauty, that he found himself incredibly turned around. That was how he found himself in the courtyard.

“There you are,” a soft voice spoke, bringing him out of his wanderings.

Crowley turned to see a young woman sitting on a stone bench under the shade of an olive tree. She had red hair, lighter than Crowley’s; where his was a raging inferno, hers was a light summer’s day.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Have we met?” He recognized her as one of the king’s daughters, but he didn’t think they had ever spoken.

She gave him a demure smile. “We just did.”

“Right…” He was beginning to recall some of the rumors he had heard whispered around the palace, about the king’s daughter who lied. He had heard other stories, too, secrets passed between non-mortal lips.

Crowley hadn’t actually met the gods the people of this city worshipped, but he had enough experience with divinity to know how they liked to play with others’ lives, and these deities seemed to be no different.

“He loves you, too, you know,” she said, and her eyes seemed to be staring right through him. “He doesn’t realize yet, but the seeds have been planted and they will grow so very strong.”

Crowley stretched his lips into a thin smile. “I don’t know who you mean,” he lied.

She smiled and suddenly seemed to be much older than she appeared. “You do. You will stand side by side, hand in hand at the end. You and your angel.”

Crowley wondered, not for the first time, if being loved by a god was more of a burden than it was worth. It certainly was for this poor girl. “He’s not mine.”

“He will be, Crowley.”

“It’s Crawley.”

There was that knowing smile again. It made his skin crawl. “Of course. My apologies.”

He knew it wasn’t her fault she had been cursed with false prophecies, but it hurt all the same, knowing what he would never actually have. He needed to excuse himself before he let the pain show.

“Yes, well. It was nice meeting you, Cassandra of Troy.”


	20. Constellations

Aziraphale had stars covering his skin.

Freckles had bloomed on his cheeks. They scattered across his shoulders and down his arms. They spread all over his stomach and down his back.

They hadn’t been there before.

Angel kisses, they were sometimes called.

Crowley was an angel once. But that was a long time ago.

Then again, with their home here on Earth, maybe it had been a long time since _either_ of them were angels.

Crowley placed the stars in the sky. “For you, Angel,” he said, his lips moving gently across his cheek. “I placed them there for you.”

No, Crowley was no longer an angel. But, he gave names to the constellations on Aziraphale’s body, same as he did the ones in the sky.

And his lips left fiery trails in their wake, like being kissed by the sun.

And Aziraphale had stars covering his skin.


	21. Paint the Sky

Crowley used to paint. His brush was the cosmos and his canvas was the universe, infinite and vast. With just one stroke, he could bring the sky to life.

He tried it again, after his Fall, but it wasn't the same. No matter how vibrant the colors, no matter how beautiful the work, whatever he created was just a pale facsimile to the masterpieces he had composed in heaven. In the beginning, the stars could _sing_. Creation was an experience of _all_ the senses and painting with human methods simply couldn't compare.

He resigned himself to never again knowing the joy of making art as he used to. At least, until Aziraphale became his canvas.

It was after the apocalypse that never was. Things changed between them, slowly, at first, until one day the dam within them could withstand no more and it burst in a rush of love and want and a collision of lips and flesh.

It was then that Crowley discovered he could bring Aziraphale to life with the sweep of his hand, just as he had the stars so long ago. So he set to work, skin against skin, skin against lips, skin against tongue, and it was a beautiful assault on all his senses. Gently, lovingly he brought Aziraphale there, and turned him into his newest masterpiece.

And, like the stars, Aziraphale _sang_.


	22. I Love You

It was unexpected, almost. Aziraphale wouldn't have thought it (though, that was more because he had never allowed himself to dwell on such things) but, despite all of Crowley's rough edges and walls he had built to protect himself from getting hurt, he loved incredibly freely and easily. He always had, Aziraphale supposed, he had just never looked closely enough to see it, before.

He loved with his actions. Acts of service, done here and there, a valiant rescue, the preservation of some books, a hand extended with palm open, patiently, patiently waiting for Aziraphale to be ready to take it.

He loved with small gestures. The nearly imperceptible tug on the corners of his lips whenever he saw him, the subtle angling of his body to always be facing him, the slight twitch of his hand, as though he longed to reach out and touch.

He loved quietly. He loved gently. He loved with his whole being.

And, as soon as Aziraphake tore down that last barrier between them, he loved with his words. _I love you_ whispered in the early hours of the morning,_ I love you _murmured in the fading light of the dusk, _I love you_ repeated over and over, as though he would never tire of saying them. It was funny, in a way, but whenever Aziraphale said it, he'd turn into a blushing mess, yet the words slipped from his own lips as easily as though he had been gifted a voice just to speak them.

So, speak them, he did.

_I love you_, a confession. _I love you_, a declaration. _I love you_, a promise.

_I love you, too._ And, _oh_, wasn't that a delight, to watch him unravel under those same words.

_Y-you love me?_

_Of course, my silly darling. I love you. I love you. I love you._ A confession, a declaration, a promise.

_I love you._

_Always._


	23. Made To Love

Crowley was made to love Aziraphale, he was sure of it. He’d known it since that day on the wall, when white feathers protected him from gray skies. And, _oh, what a gift,_ to cherish such a creature, to have been created just to do so.

Everything he was, was for Aziraphale. A heart for adoring. Hands for holding. Lips for promising. There was a time when he hated himself, but no longer. If he was for Aziraphale, then how could he be anything less than perfect?

He gave himself entirely in his devotion. He’d do anything. He’d already hung the stars in the sky for him, for his beloved angel, what was moving a few mountains?

Yes, Crowley was made to love Aziraphale, he was sure of it.

But Aziraphale wouldn’t let him.

_You go to fast for me, Crowley._

He was just doing what he was meant to, how could it be too fast?

It ached, and still… given a choice, Crowley wouldn’t change a thing. He was made to love Aziraphale, and oh, what a treasure that was, to worship a being such as he? Such a resplendent creature, bathed in light and grace. He looked upon Aziraphale, and he knew what it was to worship. How could he ever give that up?

So, he loved in silence, from afar, and found he was content with what he had been given. And all was right in the world.

How was he to know there could be more?

The apocalypse set things in motion, more than he could have possibly anticipated.

It led him to the Ritz, _“to the world_,” and finally, to the back of a bookshop in Soho.

But most importantly, it led him to Aziraphale’s side.

“I should have told you from the day I met you,” Aziraphale whispered as he clung desperately to Crowley, as though to let go would be to become unmoored. “I was made just to love you. I’ve always known it to be true. Please, forgive me for being so slow to catch up.”

But what was there to forgive?

Crowley was made to love Aziraphale, and now he was sure Aziraphale was made to love him, too. And, oh, what a blessing it was to have found each other.


	24. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a Tumblr request. Anon wanted Crowley gushing to The Them about his hubby.

“Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale looked up from the six mugs of coacoa he was preparing to find Adam Young staring at him, expression direct and unyielding in the way only a child’s could be. It was unnerving in regular children, even more so in one who was <strike>formerly</strike> the Anrichrist. Aziraphale tried not to let his discomfort show as he cleared his throat.

“It’s almost ready, young man,” he said with a smile. “Just need to add the marshmallows.”

“No, it’s not that,” Adam said, eyeing the mugs eagerly. “It’s Crowley.”

Azirphale’s expression went flat. _Of course it was._ “What’s he done now?”

“He’s…” Adam fidgeted awkwardly, almost guiltily, and Aziraphale suddenly found himself feeling worried for Crowley’s sake. “…Talking…”

The worry vanished, to turn into confusion. “Talking?”

“Yes. He won’t stop.”

There was definitely something guilty in his expression. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

Adam shifted uncomfortably under the scrutinizing gaze. “I didn’t mean to!” he said defensively. “Honest! It’s just, sometimes when I tell people to do things or want them to happen, they do! And Crowley kept dodging the question, and I just wanted to know if you two were really, _you know,_ and he kept lying, I could _tell_ he was _lying_, so I told him… I told him to…”

“Told him to what?”

“I told him to tell us the truth about how he felt about you. _And now he won’t stop!_”

Oh dear. Aziraphale followed Adam into the next room to find Crowley singing his praises. Literally. Crowley had somehow procured a guitar and was strumming it poorly while singing ‘my angel is the best angel I love him so much’ tunelessly and entirely off-key. The rest of The Them sat before him, looking absolutely miserable with their hands over their ears.

Blessedly, Crowley stopped as soon as he noticed Aziraphale! “Angel!” he cried happily, leaping up from the couch to drape himself over his husband in an all-encompassing hug. “I love you.”

Aziraphale blushed as Brian snickered and Pepper rolled her eyes.

“Right, erm…” he stumbled a bit under their combined weight but managed to stay standing. “How long is this meant to last?”

It was Pepper who answered. “Last time was two hours.”

Crowley happily nuzzled up under Aziraphale’s chin. It was cute, but _so weird_, and Aziraphale didn’t really know what to do. “I’ll just… take him home, then? It was lovely seeing you all. Coacoa’s in the kitchen, don’t let it get cold.”

The Them murmured their goodbyes and Aziraphale carried Crowley, who was clinging to him much like a snake, to the Bentley, and after a twenty minute negotiation that involved the promise of hours of cuddles later, managed to convince the demon to let go of him and drive them home.

Later, when Crowley returned to his senses, he was mortified to discover that his performance of 'Aziraphale, the Most Lovely and Beautiful and Perfect Angel Ever’ had become a plague on the MeVideo, much to Aziraphale’s delight.

“It’s _viral_ on _YouTube_, Angel, and it’s _not funny!_”


	25. Harmony

Crowley's love was a hurricane; wild and all-consuming, it surged within him until there was room for little else.

Aziraphale's love was a summer's breeze; gentle and warm, it wove through him softly until it filled him to the brim.

Maybe if they had been born as mortals they would have never figured it out, never found the parts of themselves that fit perfectly within the other. Maybe if they had been bound by the brevity of human lives they would have never made it to each other.

But then again, wind has a way of finding where it needs to go, whether it be born of a storm or carrying the scent of wildflowers.

As it was, they'd had six thousand long years to get it right, Aziraphale calming that frantic thing within Crowley, and Crowley inciting passion within the softness of Aziraphale. Two harmonizing notes sounded with perfect clarity ringing out across the air.

(In another world there is a young man who can't get the vision of golden curls out if his head. When they steal a kiss, the same sound chimes across the village they call home.

In yet another world, people whisper about the young women, one with fiery red hair, the other with the bluest eyes, and how happy they seem. A sound like bells follows them wherever they go.

In another, they marry in secret. Two soft notes.

In another, they declare their love for all to see. Two thundering rings.

It doesn't matter who they are, or where they might be from. The point is, they find each other, even with what little time they have.

They find each other.

They find each other.

And they are happy.)

In this world there is a cottage in the South Downs and they have eternity. The wind in that area seems to perpetually carry some dreamlike, distant song.

A choir of just two voices, vocalizing in tandem.

And if you heard it, you would know:

They are happy.


	26. Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

"Angel?"

Aziraphale gave a soft hum in response as he turned the page of his book with one hand, the other never stopping its course as it gently combed through Crowley's hair.

Crowley relaxed even further into his lover's lap and closed his eyes. "Can you tell me a story?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Of course, darling. Now, let's see..." He sat thoughtfully for a moment, tapping his fingers against his chin. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers. "Ah! Yes! Now, stop me if you've heard this one before..."

Somewhere in the middle of the South Downs, nestled at the very end of an old dirt road, there stood a modest cottage.

"And in the cottage lived the world's sexiest demon."

"Hush, now. Let me tell the story."

Inside this cottage lived the luckiest being in all of creation. For, you see, this angel had everything he could possibly ever want. He had a very comfortable couch, upon which he could spend his days reading, he had a vast collection of books that was always growing and expanding, and he had even had a quaint little cafe within walking distance from his front door that served the most delicious pastries he'd ever had the pleasure to enjoy. But, none of that was enough to make him the luckiest being in all of creation. What made him the luckiest being in all of creation was not a couch, or a book, or a slice of cake. No.

What made him the luckiest being in all of creation was the person he shared it all with. You see, the angel had been blessed with a love so pure, so true, so magnificent that it measured up to nothing else; not the world's comfiest couch, rarest book, or sweetest dessert. In fact, it-

"Abeerphawe."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale looked down to discover that Crowley had turned bright red and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, dear, are you quite alright?" he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Crowley lowered his hands to glare up at Aziraphale. "You can't just say that shit."

"Oh, but darling, I think you'll find that I can. Quite easily, in fact."

Crowley could only make some kind of unintelligible sound in response to that.

Aziraphale smiled. "Shall I continue?"

"Hmmff," Crowkey grunted petulantly. "You said stop you if I'd heard it before. Well, I'm pretty sure I heard it before somewhere. Try another."

Aziraphale let out a huff of laughter. "Very well."

There was a time, not too very long ago, when the world seemed like it was about to come to an end. It was only thanks to the efforts of a most dashing hero in dark sunglasses who bore a striking resemblance to Jim Bond-

Crowley made an offended noise. "_James_ Bond! I know this one, too."

In London, during World War II, there was a foolish bookseller.

Crowley snorted. "Try again."

A very hungry, very well dressed man was unfairly imprisoned during the French Revolution?

Crowley made a thumbs down gesture. "Nope."

Aziraphale sat thoughtfully for a moment. "Do you know the one about the angel at Eden?" he asked finally.

Crowley smiled. "The one where he gave away his flaming sword? Might've, but I like that one, so why don't you refresh my memory?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "No, not that one. The one where the angel met a serpent, and his life was changed for the better?"

Crowley blushed again. "Aziraphale..."

But Aziraphale pressed on. "Or the one where all it took was a smile and some light teasing for the angel to become hopelessly in love?"

Crowley looked up at him in wonder.

"Or the one where the angel spent six thousand years lying to himself and he is so sorry?" Tears formed at the corner of his eyes. "Or the one where the angel wishes he had spent every day telling the serpent how wonderful, how important, how good he was. Or the one where-"

Crowley sat up and gently pressed his lips to Aziraphale's, swallowing the regrets as they poured from Aziraphale's lips in the hopes that he could simply will them away. A broken sound escaped Aziraphale and Crowley pulled away to look him in the eyes as his thumbs softly wiped the tears off his cheeks.

"Alright, Angel, stop me if you've heard this one before..."

There was a demon who fell in love with an angel, and the angel graced him with his love in return. Even though it took them a while to get there, to find their place, it was okay because they _did_ finally make it.

And now they had all the time in the world.


	27. Eden

They met for the first time in the garden, but not atop the outer wall, on the day of the first rain. In the early days of Eden, when Adam and Eve were still new, there was a guardian and a serpent. And you would not be remiss to call them friends, though that was only because names for closer relationships had not quite been conceived of, yet.

Neither of them meant for it to happen. The serpent crawled up to the surface with instructions to stir up trouble, and he thought what better way was there to do that than by interfering in an angel’s assignment. And if the serpent did so love to converse with the guardian, then that was merely one of the few perks his job afforded him.

The guardian, for his part, had been about to perform his duty and banish the demon from the garden when fiery copper curls and golden eyes caused him to stay his hand. It couldn’t be shirking his duty to let this one stay, he reasoned. For how could a creature as resplendent as him not belong among such beauty?

They had nothing in common, save for their mutual fascination with the two humans and their fondness for one another, but it was enough, and they spent their days sharing in the many joys the garden had to offer. They could have spent the rest of eternity in such a way, had it not been for plans that were not of there making and a tree that had started to bear fruit.

It was shortly after the first apple began to ripen that the guardian returned to the garden after the Almighty had summoned him for a status report, a slight frown twisting his countenance.

“Do you think they know what they’re missing?” he asked the serpent, whose name he did not know, as they watched Adam and Eve picking berries in the light of the early morning.

“How do you mean?” The serpent, who wore his scaled form, silently delighted in the fact that he had roped the angel into another conversation without even trying. His superiors downstairs were surely pleased with his success.

“Well, we have the ability to think for ourselves, to recognize we have a place in God’s world. To know the part we must play. Do you suppose they understand that there is something they are… missing?”

The serpent gave a hum of comprehension. “I reckon they can’t,” he said with a ripple along his long body that might have been a shrug. “Else they wouldn’t actually be missing it, would they?”

The guardian’s frown deepened. “Ah, yes. Of course.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though.” The serpent’s tone was comforting. “Ignorance is blisss.”

The guardian nodded and gave him a small smile, though his eyes still appeared troubled. “I’m sure you have the right of it. Though, it is a _little_ sad, don’t you agree?”

The demon did, though he didn’t have a chance to voice it as the angel steered the conversation towards lighter subjects. Still, the serpent couldn’t shake the look in his friend’s eyes. It stayed there, haunting the angel’s once carefree expressions. He just wanted it to go away.

And the tree was _right there_.


	28. Me-ow!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Based on this dumb post I made on Tumblr.](https://acuteangleaziraphale.tumblr.com/post/187995508325)

When Aziraphale brought the cat home, what he _had_ expected was the light hearted teasing from Crowley over how utterly cliche it was to have a cat living in a bookshop. What he _hadn’t_ expected was for the usually standoffish demon to get attached.

“What’s his name?” Crowley asked as he scratched the feline under the chin, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he’d have sworn the wretched thing looked positively smug.

“Oh, err…” Aziraphale snapped out of his thoughts, which had drifted into the surprising territory of what Crowley’s fingers would feel like tangled in his hair “I haven’t actually given him one yet, I’ve mostly been calling him ‘cat.’” He looked at Crowley’s gentle expression and something awful twisted in his gut. “Would you like the honors?”

He could have sworn he saw Crowley smile, but it disappeared in an instant and suddenly the demon was standing, his fingers shoved into the stupidly small pockets on his skinny jeans. “I’ll think on it, yeah? I’d better be off. People to be and places to tempt and all that.”

Aziraphale barely had time to say goodbye or point out Crowley’s mistake before he was out the door and the Bentley’s engine rumbled to life outside. The cat padded over and wound itself around Aziraphale’s legs and he suddenly found himself glaring at the creature as it meowed innocently up at him before he realized how ridiculous he was being.

“Oh, good lord- I’m jealous of a cat.”

—

Aziraphale was rearranging one of his bookcases when the bell over the shop door gave off a cheery little jingle and a set of footsteps- which he was a little embarrassed to admit he could always recognize as Crowley’s- entered the shop.

“Good morning!” Crowley said from the next aisle over, his voice sound unusually warm.

Aziraphale was about to respond with his own 'good morning,’ but what Crowley said next made his voice catch in his throat.

“'I love you, Aziraphale!’ That’s not so hard, is it?”

“_What_?” Aziraphale rounded the corner to find Crowley crouched down, once again petting that blasted cat.

“Oh, Angel!” Crowley looked up at him, his face a bright red. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly. “Did you just say-”

“No!” Crowley shouted, his eyes panicked. “I was- I was talking to the cat!”

Aziraphale blinked as he saw the cat was now wearing a collar with a shining silver tag. “You… you named the cat Aziraphale?”

“…Yes?”

“Why?”

“Err…”

It was then that Aziraphale (the angel, not the cat) noticed a plant with a bright red ribbon tied around its pot. “What’s that?”

Crowley looked at the plant as if he had just realized he was holding it. “Uhh… it’s a gift! For the cat!”

Aziraphale gave him a dubious stare. “You got the cat a plant?”

“Yep! Anyway, I’ve brought the plant, I’ve done what I’ve come to do, better be off, see you later, Angel!” And once again, quick as a whip, Crowley had left the shop leaving Aziraphale alone and a bit bewildered. It was only as he listened to the Bentley driving off that Aziraphale realized Crowley hadn’t even left the plant.

—

Aziraphale tried not to appear annoyed every time Crowley came over to visit the cat, really, he _did_, but each time Crowley scratched it behind the ears, Aziraphale could _swear_ the little beast was gloating.

One day, after Aziraphale had once again failed to keep the scowl from his face, Crowley crossed the shop to stand in front of his desk, shifting awkwardly until Aziraphale looked up from his book with a puzzled frown. “Are you alright?”

“What did I do?” Crowkey asked.

Aziraphale blinked. Even behind his glasses Crowley looked so vulnerable that Aziraphale longed to do nothing more than reach over the desk and pull him into his arms. “My dear boy, whatever do you mean?”

Crowley frowned and stared at the wall. “You seem… mad. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.”

Aziraphale shut his book as a wave of guilt washed over him. “Oh, heavens, Crowley,_ no._ You’ve done nothing wrong, my dear, I just- Well, the thing is- Oh, it’s all rather embarrassing…”

Crowley looked at him.

“It’s the cat, you see, you said you love it, and I- I just- Oh, why did you have to go and name it Aziraphale, I mean, not that it isn’t flattering, I suppose, but it’s so- _Why are you laughing?”_

“Angel- Aziraphale- did you happen to take a look at the tag on the collar?”

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“The cat’s name is Mercury.”

“…But then-”

“I was practicing. For how I was going to tell you. You really thought I’d go around saying 'I love you’ to a cat?”

“It did seem a _bit_ odd, now that you mention it.”

“I mean, it’s cute and all, but not as cute as… err…” Crowley suddenly seemed to catch himself and began blushing furiously, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “Not that… Not that I expect you to feel the same way or anything, I just-”

Crowley stopped talking as Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. “I love you, Crowley.”

“…You do?”

Aziraphale grinned and entwined his fingers with Crowley’s so he could bring his knuckles up to his lips. “Not you, I’ve decided to name the cat Crowley.”

“Oh, _shut up._”


	29. *bang*bang* Tartan Love! Whoa!

It’s ridiculous, really, the things Crowley will do for love. Walk across consecrated ground. Run inside a burning building. Change the upholstery in his Bentley to _bloody tartan_.

He nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the angel to finish locking up the shop. A million excuses sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to be thrown out at a moment’s notice. _Thought it was time for a change. Tartan actually looks okay when it’s on leather. Oh, look at that, I hadn’t even noticed. _Anything to avoid the truth of _It was an accident, I was thinking of you and it just happened_ spilling out.

Aziraphale opened the passenger side door and Crowley’s breath caught in his chest. This was it.

Aziraphale froze, and Crowley tried to will his traitorous heart to stop beating, or at least stop trying to launch itself from his chest, but it refused to obey. Useless thing.

Slowly, Aziraphale climbed into the seat, looking positively bewildered, and suddenly a new, horrifying thought occurred to Crowley: This was, after all, not just any tartan but Aziraphale’s personal tartan. What if he had overstepped?

“I thought it was time for leather looks good, I hadn’t even noticed I was thinking of you!” he blurted. Aziraphale turned his bewilderment to him, and Crowley replayed the nonsense he had just spouted in his mind on loop.

“Err…”

Any explanation he could have come up with was cut off by the sudden weight in his lap and lips pressed against his own.

It took Crowley an embarrassingly long moment to realize that Aziraphale had straddled him in the driver’s seat and was kissing him. Hungrily.

And, oh, wasn’t that a nice surprise.

The moment was over too soon, as Aziraphale, noticing Crowley wasn’t kissing him back, pulled away and scrambled backwards right into the steering wheel, sounding off the horn.

“I’m sorry-” Aziraphale began, before Crowley seized the lapel of his coat and hauled him back in.

After what felt like an eternity, Crowley finally pulled away long enough to say, “I know you love tartan, but _damn_, Angel.”

Aziraphale let out an annoyed huff against Crowley’s neck and Crowley shivered. “I _like_ tartan,” he corrected, nipping at the junction where Crowley’s neck met his collarbone. “I love _you_.”

“…Just to clarify, is that in an ‘love all of God’s crations’ way, or is it something a bit more?”

“Yes, Crowley, I give love bites to all of God’s creations.” And there was that bastard-smirk that Crowley loved so much.

“You gave me a hickey?” Crowley looked at his own neck, which _should_ have been impossible, but he _was_ a serpent.

“_Love bite_,” Aziraphale insisted.

Crowley would have argued, but he decided that kissing Aziraphale was a much better use of his time. “We’re going to miss the opera if we don’t leave soon,” he reluctantly pointed out against Aziraphale’s lips.

“Forget the opera,” Aziraphale murmured back, his voice sounding heavy.

Crowley was more than a little surprised at that. Aziraphale had been talking about this show for ages, and was very put off when not even a couple of miracles could land him tickets to see it. Luckily, Crowley had managed to snag a pair for the final performance in a poker game against some foreign dignitary at the last minute. He didn’t particularly want to go, himself, but the delighted look on Aziraphale’s face upon the invitation made it well worth it. “But-”

“Darling, if you don’t get back to kissing me_ right now,_ then so help me God-”

So, Crowley did.


	30. First Kisses

The first time Aziraphale had leaned forward and closed the six thousand year long distance between them to kiss Crowley, he had made a strangled sound much like a giraffe choking on a twig and promptly fallen to the floor. Aziraphale, fearing that he had misread the situation, dropped to his knees to make sure the dazed demon was alright.

Which would be how they ended up a pile of tangled limbs on the floor of the bookshop. At least, until the customer walked in.

The next time Aziraphale brought their lips together, Crowley had much the same reaction, though he was saved from collapsing to the floor by the mere fact that he was sitting on Aziraphale’s couch.

Aziraphale assumed that if he kissed Crowley enough, he would eventually get used to it.

He assumed wrong.

In fact, Crowley treated every kiss like it was the first one, his fingers tangling ever so gently in Aziraphale’s hair and his thumb lightly brushing against his cheek, as though he were afraid that if he let go, he would disappear.

And Aziraphale’s heart would ache in the best possible way. There was so much _love_ in those lips, in that embrace, and he didn’t mind being the only thing that kept Crowley standing when his knees gave out in those first few seconds.

And the first time Crowley boldly breached the chasm to pour his love directly into Aziraphale, he made a surprised sound like an owl trying to learn how to play the trumpet and was saved from crashing to the ground only by Crowley’s arms wrapped around his middle.


	31. Call Me Angel

Aziraphale still remembered the first time Crowley had called him ‘angel.’ He didn’t remember the circumstances, such as where they were, what they had been doing, or what they had even been talking about.

What he did remember was that his heart, (which he hadn’t remembered to make beat before that moment,) had started hammering away in his chest, to the point where he could feel it all the way down to the tips of his toes. He remembered the way the word had echoed in his head, drowning out anything else. He remembered the way a warmth had spread throughout him, starting at the tips of his ears, then blooming across his cheeks. Mostly, though, he remembered the way it had sounded on Crowley’s tongue. It wasn’t said as a pet name, the way some humans did, but, oh, the _fondness_ that had been poured into that word. It was the way one would address a very dear friend. It made Aziraphale realize that he _wanted_ to be that to Crowley. It was the first time the thought that maybe he wanted to be _more_ nudged gently against the back of his mind. (Aziraphale wouldn’t realize what exactly that was until muchlater, when he stood amidst the rubble of a ruined church.)

Crowley had noticed the effect the word had had on him; Aziraphale knew it from the twitch of a lip and the glint in an eye. From then on the word was a staple in Crowley’s vocabulary in much the same way 'book’ was in Aziraphale’s. Crowley clearly delighted in the way it made Aziraphale flush and turn into a stammering mess, and Aziraphale couldn’t be mad about that, because Crowley clearly loved it so.

Eventually, though, he grew used to it, and though it still set his heart aflutter, he had grown past the silly grinning and carrying on.

Or so he thought, until Crowley pulled him close and whispered it reverently against his lips.


	32. Warmth

The lump of tartan blankets on the couch in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop appeared with the first snowfall after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Aziraphale often found himself talking to it as he went about his day, hardly minding that he never really got a reply back.

In the evenings, after he closed up the shop, he’d hoist the bundle of blankets into his arms and carry them up the stairs to his room, and he’d spend the night reading while the blankets clung to him.

It was a little strange, he’d admit, feeling so much love radiating from _blankets_ of all things, but it most certainly wasn’t unwelcome. In fact, he’d sometimes find himself staring at the lump on the couch, an unbidden smile settled across his lips.

This all went on for a few months, until one day, as Aziraphale was drinking tea on the couch, the blankets finally stirred, and Crowley’s head popped out of the mound, his hair entirely a mess and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

Setting down his teacup, Aziraphale smiled warmly and easily moved the blanket-entangled demon onto his lap. “Good morning love,” he said, gently placing a kiss into Crowley’s hair.

Crowley’s reply was muffled by a yawn as he leaned his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale pulled Crowley even closer and looked into bright amber eyes masked by drooping eyelids. “You still look so tired, dear. What woke you?”

“Mmmf,” Crowley mumbled, nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck. “Missed you.”

“And I, you, darling. But I’ve hardly left your side all this while, and I promise I don’t plan on changing that. Why don’t you get some more rest, hmm?”

“Can’t make me,” Crowley said petulantly, and Aziraphale had to laugh at his stubbornness.

“Very well, then. Open up, I’m coming in.”

Crowley graciously allowed Aziraphale to wiggle his way into the blankets and soon enough, the two of them were happily pressed close together in a caccoon of warmth and love.

Aziraphale rarely slept, so he was surprised when he awoke, not on the couch, but in his bed to a pair of yellow eyes staring back at him.

“Morning, Angel,” Crowley said, with a smile.

“Good morning, my love,” Aziraphale responded. “I missed you.”

Crowley smiled and leaned over so their lips were but a breath apart. “I missed you, too,” he said, and then he closed the distance.


	33. Your Hand in Mine

They held hands on the wall. As Crawley inched further into the sanctum provided by Aziraphale’s outstretched wing, the tips of his fingers brushed up against the angel’s and, much to his surprise, became tangled up within them.

They stood there, hand in hand, and watched the rain fall, and though not a word passed between them, they reached an understanding:_ you are not my enemy._

Eventually, the skies had spilled their last and Aziraphale retracted his wing.

Their hands, however, remained entwined.

“…I should… go,” Crawley said hesitantly.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Their grasps did not weaken.

“I have… things… I need to do,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Right,” Crawley agreed with a nod.

They each held tighter.

And then released. The simple dropping of another’s hand should not lead one to feel like they’d been torn right in two.

But their world’s were just a little darker from then on.

The pain of the parting haunted them for many millennia, and their hands did not join again.

Until they walked the Earth that was, against all odds, still turning. They boarded the bus and their hands found each other as they sat down.

They no longer _needed_ to let go, so there was no more fear.

After all, it was only a matter of time, only a distance of a few short steps before they would be joined again.


	34. Titus Anacondicus

As a part-time rare book dealer, Aziraphale was pleased to say that he had developed quite the discerning eye. He could tell a legitimate first edition apart from a fake with, frankly, unparalleled speed and accuracy.

As such, he could _most definitely_ tell a real snake apart from Crowley in his snake form with much the same ease. Yes. Certainly. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. He had, after all, known the serpent for a good six thousand years, so it should be absolutely no trouble at all for him to pick him out from an entire pit of vipers (which, he knew from his books, were a type of snake.)

After all, there were several features he could use to tell one snake apart from another. They were, well, they were… long. And kind of… scaly. And had… eyes. Yes, they most definitively had eyes. Aziraphale _loved_ Crowley’s eyes, and should all else fail, he could always use them to pick him out from a… herd? Flock? From a bunch of other snakes.

Except Crowley’s eyes were typically hidden by those blasted sunglasses, and maybe Aziraphale sometimes forgot what exactly they looked like, and _maybe_ Aziraphale had just confessed to six thousand years worth of longing to a snake that was not actually Crowley at all.

Come to think of it, Aziraphale hadn’t actually seen Crowley assume his snake form since Eden and, faced with the undeniable truth that he had gotten it wrong, he didn’t really know why he had thought this snake was Crowley at all, aside from the fact that it was _in Crowley’s flat_, and why in _heaven_ did Crowley have a non-him snake in his home in the first place?!

“…Angel?”

Aziraphale whirled around to find Crowley holding two mugs (one of which Aziraphale knew would contain hot cocoa prepared just the way he liked it) and looking appropriately baffled.

Crowley cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are my ears playing tricks on me or did you say you’re in love with Titus Anacondicus?” Though he was clearly aiming for casual and teasing, there was a strained quality to his voice that indicated he had heard enough to know what was truly happening here.

But Aziraphale’s mind was still stuck on the snake’s name and he couldn’t help himself– he rolled his eyes. “Titus- Oh, _good lord_, Crowley,” he said as he took the proffered mug. He took a sip and closed his eyes. It was absolutely _perfect_, just as he had suspected, (and really, that told him all he needed to know about how Crowley might feel in return.) It was better, even, than the cocoa he made for himself; then again, he didn’t pour his love into it, the way Crowley did.

Crowley shifted nervously from one foot to the other and Aziraphale sipped contentedly at his drink, patiently waiting for the demon to sort himself out. 

“It’s mutual, you know,” he said at last. “I- I- I mean- not that I’m in love with the snake- that clearly isn’t- it’s you! You’re the snake! Err- not that you’re a snake- I’m a snake, obviously, you knew that. What I mean is-” Crowley stopped and took a deep breath, and when he released it, the words came rushing out of him, like a wave crashing against the shore. “IloveyoutooAziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiled and set the mug down. He approached Crowley, reaching out towards his face. “May I?”

Crowley nodded dumbly and allowed Aziraphale to gently remove his sunglasses, and _oh_. That explained the misunderstanding (it didn’t, really, but let him have this.) Aziraphale’s memories really didn’t do Crowley’s eyes any justice _at all_.

Gently, he pressed their lips together. At first nothing happened, but then Crowley made a sound akin to a whine deep in his throat and suddenly his lips were moving against his own, and Aziraphale could have sworn he saw _stars._

“You know,” Crowley said pulling back slightly. “I could turn into a snake if you’d prefer.”

Aziraphale groaned. “Oh, darling, _do_ shut up,” he grumbled before fisting his hands in Crowley’s jacket and pulling him back in.


	35. An Absolute Angel

In retrospect, Aziraphale probably could have avoided making an utter fool of himself if he had simply asked Crowley if they could meet up to compare disguises before making their way to the Dowling residence. As it was, he was lucky he didn’t blow the whole con by turning into a blushing mess during his job interview the moment Crowley stepped into kitchen as Nanny Ashtoreth.

Crowley had been wearing his clothes too tight ever since it became fashionable to do so, so the simple switch from skinny jeans to a pencil skirt shouldn’t have been enough to completely throw Aziraphale off. And yet…

“Brother Francis?” Mrs. Dowling asked, concern etched across her soft features. “Are you alright?”

Aziraphale could have sworn he saw Crowley smirk as he tried to swallow around his suddenly dry throat. “O-Oh, yes! So sorry! Er… What was I saying?”

“You were talking about your previous experience as a groundskeeper,” Mrs. Dowling reminded him. With her back to her, Mrs. Dowling couldn’t see the way Crowley- or rather, Nanny Ashtoreth- was leaning against the counter, her hips canted out in a way that he supposed was meant to be alluring, but was just oh-so-very-_Crowley_ that Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel a sort of fondness, and- oh. He had lost focus again.

Aziraphale cleared his throat in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but could I perhaps trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Of course, I’m so sorry I didn’t offer you anything, I’ve just been so frazzled with the new baby,” Mrs. Dowling apologized as she moved to get up.

She was stopped by a soft voice. “Oh, no, dear, allow me,” Nanny Ahstoreth said as she moved to pull a glass from the cupboard.

“Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Dowling said, settling back in her chair. “Nanny Ashtoreth has just been a _godsend_.”

Now Aziraphale could see that Crowley was _definitely_ smirking.

“Has she now?” he asked flatly.

Luckily, Mrs. Dowling either didn’t notice his tone or just outright ignored it. “Oh, yes, she’s an absolute _angel_.”

Nanny Ashtoreth set the glass of water down in front of him, and Aziraphale could see her snake eyes glinting in utter delight behind her dark glasses at Mrs. Dowling’s unintentional blasphemy, and he stopped himself from rolling his eyes by taking a long drink.

“You are too kind, Mrs. Dowling,” Nanny Ashtoreth said. “I’ll go check on the little one now and let you both be, shall I? I look forward to working with you, Brother Francis.”

Aziraphale watched her sashay her way out of the kitchen, and when Mrs. Dowling offered him the job a few minutes later, he had a hunch it was based more on the nanny’s approval than on that disastrous interview.

An absolute angel, _indeed_.


	36. Companion

Though he never talked about it, Aziraphale was ancient. One of the first angels. Crowley may have been around long enough to form the stars, but Aziraphale helped create the _sky_.

True, he wasn’t an Archangel, like Michael or Gabriel, but he had been there just as long as they had, assisting, always ready to lend a hand. After all, even Archangels needed guidance every now and then.

Perhaps it was his age or the experience it granted him which gained him stewardship over the Eastern Gate. In any case, that was where he found himself, watching Adam name the animals in the garden, when he felt the weight of God’s attention upon him.

“Good morning, Aziraphale,” She said, Her voice drifting gently to his ears.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale replied with a smile. Mornings were new. He liked them.

“How is Adam?” God asked.

“He is fine,” Aziraphale said. For what else could he possibly be? Everything was Perfect.

But God didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. “Does he seem happy to you, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale frowned, for he did not understand. “Happy?”

“Yes,” God said. “Happy.”

And then a warm feeling washed over him, starting low in his stomach and then bubbling up until it felt like he was glowing from within, and, oh, _of course_. _Happy_. Aziraphale thought for a moment, trying to recall if he had ever seen such a thing in the human.

“He… talks to the animals sometimes,” Aziraphale said at last. “Perhaps…” But, no. This was not his place.

But God did not seem to mind. “Perhaps?” She encouraged patiently.

“Perhaps… if he had… somebody else. Whom he could talk to, and who could talk to him.“

"That’s a wonderful idea, Aziraphale,” God said, sounding pleased. And then her attention shifted, and Aziraphale followed her focus, up and up, until he was gazing skyward. The sun was still low enough on the horizon that he could see the stars blooming into existence as the angels overhead delicately placed them.

Aziraphale had always thought the sky to be beautiful, but the stars transformed it into something _more_ and it took his breath away.

“I think everyone deserves a companion,” God mused, and then she was gone, and Aziraphale was alone at the gate again.

It was so long ago, but Aziraphale still remembered that moment perfectly. He didn’t bother hiding the soft smile that settled on his face as he watched Crowley talk, his hands fluttering through the air to emphasize his words. He thought of the sky, how it was beautiful on its own, but how the stars seemed to elevate it to something beyond beauty.

“…Aziraphale?” Crowley seemed to have noticed he wasn’t listening and was looking at him curiously.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said simply, in way of explanation, adoring how Crowley’s face lit up. He was beautiful already, sure, but that smile… _oh, that smile. _It was lovely even beyond the stars.

Yes. Everyone deserved a companion.


	37. Sunrise

The sun slowly peeked over the horizon to find Crowley and Aziraphale seated on a bench in the park. It was an ordinary, uneventful morning, well before the threat of impending apocalypse would loom over, ruining simple mornings such as these. 

Of the two beings who didn’t need to sleep, it was the one who very rarely did who had suggested meeting well before the break of dawn, much to Crowley’s reluctance and dismay. He had sworn the moment he sat down that he would be off as soon as they finished their debriefing to ‘get some much needed beauty rest, really Angel, are you some kind of sadist or something?’

However, all business had been thoroughly discussed, and then discussed some more, just for good measure, and Crowley had been unable to part himself from Aziraphale’s company as soon as he had looked at him with those bright blue eyes (how could an _angel_ be so good at tempting?) and asked, ‘won’t you enjoy the sunrise with me, dear boy?’

Aziraphale was delighted that Crowley had agreed and giddily awaited the glow of the break of dawn. When the first rays of light set the sky ablaze, he gasped in wonder, and his hand flitted over to briefly grasp Crowley’s before he remembered himself and primly clasped both his hands together in his own lap.

Crowley flexed his hand, the one Aziraphale had grabbed, and Aziraphale briefly thought he would reach out and rejoin it with his, but the moment passed when Crowley cleared his throat and said, “So. You really like sunrises?”

“Oh, they’re my favorite!” Aziraphale gushed. The colors are so magnificent.

“Yeah, they are,” Crowley agreed gently. He stared off, so entranced by the sight before him that he removed his sunglasses. Suddenly, his head snapped over to Aziraphale. “Hey, wait! Didn’t you _make_ the sky?”

“I helped,” Aziraphale said simply.

“Yeah, yeah, hey, remind me which bit you worked on?” he asked with all the casualness of someone who knew the exact answer to their question.

“…The colors,” Aziraphale said flatly.

“That’s right, _the colors_! Now, you do know pride is a sin, right?”

Aziraphale might have been offended, if Crowley’s tone didn’t carry the hint of laughter that told him he was only teasing. He put on a show of being so anyway, purely for Crowley’s benefit, just so he could see that toothy grin.

“All jokes aside, though, orange was a bold choice. Why’d you pick it?” Crowley asked, that familiar look of curiosity in his eyes.

“Copper,” Aziraphale corrected automatically, because he was _particular_ about certain things. “Not orange.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Fine. Why’d you pick _copper_, then?”

—

_Aziraphale was deep in thought when one of the other angels (after all this time, Aziraphale honestly couldn’t remember their name) led an entire host of new angels through his work area. He had already filled this sky with his favorite colors (every shade of blue and the lightest yellows imaginable) but now the sunrise had him a bit stumped. He had tried various colors, but they didn’t quite seem to fit right, and now he didn’t know what to do._

_“Don’t mind us,” the angel said. “Just showing the new angels the ropes. They’ll pick up where you leave off. Starmakers, and all that.”  
_

_“Hmm? Oh, yes, that’s fine,” Aziraphale said distractedly, unable to tear his gaze away from his work. A deep green, perhaps? No, that didn’t make any sense at all.  
_

_“Right.” Aziraphale barely noticed that the angel seemed to take some small offense to being mostly ignored. “Come along, now, then,” he said to his flock. “There’s still much to see.” And then the angel left, with the rest following after him like ducklings, and soon they were all gone._

_Well, all but one._

_Aziraphale felt the presence behind him and turned to find an angel with hair the color of flames that seemed to dance in the breeze in much the same way, too. Though he was younger than Aziraphale, the other angel had a few good inches on him and he had angles in places where Aziraphale had never seen them before. __He watched him wring his hands together, recognizing the same nervousness that _he_ felt in front of _his_ superiors._

_“Can I help you?” he asked gently, not wanting to startle the poor thing.  
_

_“I just- It’s really- really beautiful,” he stammered out awkwardly. “Just thought I should tell you.”  
_

_Aziraphale beamed. “Come here,” he said, beckoning with his hand and leading him around to the night side, where Aziraphale had placed the deepest blues he could conceive of. “This is where you’ll be working.”_

_The angel stared in awe. “I didn’t know anything could be so blue,” he breathed out._

_Aziraphale’s smile grew wider and he flushed. “You should probably catch up with your group,” he said. “Before they notice you’re gone.”_

_“Oh!” the angel started. “Right!” And he hurried off, throwing a quick thank you and a goodbye over his shoulder._

_Aziraphale watched him go, a new sort of warmth filling his chest. As he finally began working on the sunset, visions of copper curls filled his head and a soft smile remained perched on his lips._

_—_

Aziraphale thought of admitting to everything, then. How he still remembered how Crowley often came to visit him as he finished up with everything. How he had stretched the project well past its due date to prolong the time they spent together. How the reprimand he received had been worth it just to see that spark in Crowley’s eyes. How he wondered if Crowley remembered it all, too.

He thought of telling him how his heart had broken in Eden when he had slithered up next to him on the wall and Aziraphale realized that his inspiration had Fallen. How his devastation faded away as he got to know him again and came to find that becoming a demon really hadn’t changed him at all.

How he found himself still deeply, _deeply_ in love.

But that was a discussion for another time. When the false start to the end of the world led him back to Crowley’s flat. When he would abandon all pretense and bare his soul, letting the confessions pour out until Crowley staunched the flow with his lips.

“You know,” he mused instead. “I don’t really recall.”


	38. He Loves You, Idiot

If Crowley hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Aziraphale was in love with him. It was in the way the angel's hand sought his out when they went on their afternoon stroll, the way he pressed his mouth against his own, as if he were something beautiful to be worshipped, the way he said his name, his eyes shining with more light and joy than Crowley had ever seen there.

It wasn't as though he thought that Aziraphale didn't _like_ him; he knew that he did. But _loving_ him? That was out of the question.

Only, when he said as much to Aziraphale one morning, when he awoke to find him gently stroking his hair and looking at him with a strange sort of awe, and he had thrown out a 'careful, or I'll think you're in love with me' in a gently teasing tone, Aziraphale had blinked at him in confusion and said, "I am."

Crowley laughed. "Don't be ridiculous, Angel, you can't be."

"Crowley, I've _told_ you I love you far more times than I can conceivably count."

"Yeah, but you love all things," Crowley countered.

"We're _married_." Aziraphale spoke slowly, like he was talking to someone incredibly stupid.

"...People do that," Crowley mumbled as his brain finally started to catch up with the events of the last ten years. "...Oh sweet baby Jesus, you love me."

"Yes," Aziraphale said simply, ignoring the blasphemy.

"You love me," Crowley repeated.

"I can see you need a moment." Aziraphale sat up and opened the book that had been laying on the bedside table.

"You love me."

"Mmhmm," Aziraphale hummed with the tone of someone who had infinite patience and had married the world's most ridiculous demon.

"You love me." Crowley was smiling now, and had he been someone with less dignity, he would have squealed in joy. Which is to say, he squealed with joy at volumes high enough that only angels and dogs could hear him.

Aziraphale smirked and flipped the page. "Careful, dear, or I might think you're in love with me."

"I do love you!" Crowley protested.

Aziraphale laughed and patted him on the head. "I know, darling."


	39. Treasure Beneath Gold

Crowley, in the guise of Aziraphale, fidgeted nervously on the bench as he awaited the angel’s return from hell. As his eyes scanned the park, his fingers busied themselves twisting the golden angel wing ring on Aziraphale’s pinky finger.

Through the various handshakes to confirm the deals and promises they had made over the centuries, Crowley had noticed that sometime within the last five hundred years the ring had become much lighter than it had been previously. Before, it had been a big, weighty thing, a solid anchor amongst his carefully cataloged memories of every touch Aziraphale and he had shared over the entirety of time. Then one day, as he grasped Aziraphale’s hand firmly in his own, he noticed the weight was missing, though he could still feel the warm press of the metal within his grip.

He never gave much thought to why or how the change had occurred until now, when he felt the metal start to give beneath his fidgeting fingers. He looked down at Aziraphale’s hand to find that one of carefully formed wings had been bent almost entirely in the wrong direction. 

Panicked, he pulled the ring off his finger to try set it right, but repeated wiggling of the thing only caused the gold to break off in his hand. His heart plummeted. Aziraphale _adored_ this ring, seemingly more so lately than he had long ago.

But then he noticed a little black tuft poking out from where the wing had been. Examining it closely, he realized he was wrong in his assumption that the ring was meant to represent angel wings, for that was most certainly a black feather buried beneath the metal. In fact, it was one of _his_.

Before he had time to consider what that could possibly mean, he felt a weight settle onto the bench beside him. He looked over to find his own face staring back at him and felt a wave of relief surge through him. Aziraphale was safe.

The confusion weighed on his mind like a fog as they completed the switch back, and Crowley, now back in his own body, abashedly handed over the broken wing with about a million questions stuck on his tongue. What came out instead was, “I’m sorry. Guess it wasn’t meant to be handled.”

Aziraphale looked down at the wing in his hand and then at the broken wing on his finger and turned a shade of red that Crowley would have found adorable, had he not been so flustered. 

“I can explain,” Aziraphale said. But no explanation came as a look of realization struck him. “Actually…”

It was a good thing Crowley had completely forgotten to restart time, as he suddenly found himself straddled by an angel who was kissing him like it was the first day of the rest of their lives.

“Oh,” Crowley said, dazed. “Good explanation.” 

—

A few years later, Crowley found himself once again fidgeting with a ring. He’d had it made specially for the occasion, and though he hoped Aziraphale would like it, he mostly just hoped he would say yes.

It turned out, from the way Aziraphale’s expression turned to delighted fondness as Crowley got down on one knee, that he needn’t have worried at all.

“Yes!” Aziraphale cried out.

“Angel, are you at least going to let me ask the question?” The smile spread across Crowley’s face rather detracted from the weight of the scolding.

“Oh, go on, then.”

“Aziraphale, will you- aw, forget it. Just give me your hand.” Gently, as though Aziraphale were the most precious thing Crowley had ever laid his hands upon, Crowley slipped the ring, which bore a single black feather wrapped around its band, plain for all to see under a layer of resin, onto Aziraphale’s finger.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale gushed as he pulled him to his feet. “I _love _it!”


	40. Accidental Miracles

It was too much. Aziraphale was in love and it was too much. Too much time spent thinking about it, too much smiling making his cheeks worn and weary, too much love spilling over causing flowers to bloom and birds to sing. It was all too much. 

“Aziraphale, what are you on about?” Crowley asked, burying his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder as they lay together in bed. He made no mention of the Hallelujah chorus sounding right outside their bedroom window.

It was too much. He was made to love, but this was beyond even him. It shouldn’t be possible to love this much.

Crowley pulled back to look him in the eye. “Aziraphale, my light, my love, my everything.” He paused to gently run his fingers over Aziraphale’s cheek. “You are ridiculous.”

Pot. Kettle.

Crowley laughed. And what a beautiful sound. “Fair enough, I s’pose.”

Too much. A warm breeze drifted through the room, though there were no open windows or doors. It smelled of books saved from a bombing, and long rides in the Bentley, and leather, and Crowley.

“I don’t smell like that,” Crowley said.

He did.

“I don’t.”

He did, but the discussion came to an end as Crowley pressed their lips together. It _was_ possible to love this much. The clouds that had been gathering outside parted to allow the sun to shine through.

“Angel, please, this is the third week in a row. We could use the rain.”

This was what he meant. A little bit of affection and he was performing accidental miracles like a lovesick fool. It was too much. Still, with just a bit of concentration, he was able to bring the clouds back. Hopefully now they could go back to kissing.

“Hey, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, as he moved away from seeking lips.

Clearly he wasn’t going to indulge him until he’d said what he’d wanted to say. Best to just get on with it then.

Crowley’s grin was infectious. His poor cheeks had had no time to recover. “I love you, too.”

And what did you know? It was possible to love even _more_.


	41. Forgiveness

“Forgive me,” Aziraphale whispers as he presses his lips to tear tracked cheeks.

“Forgive me,” he says again as he works his fingers against black buttons and chases each sliver of exposed skin with his mouth.

“Forgive me,” he weeps with fingers tangled in copper hair.

“Forgive me.” Staring deep into amber eyes.

“Angel,” Crowley chokes out, the word escaping like a sob. “Angel, we shouldn’t.” His lips betray his words, pressed as the are against Aziraphale’s own. “She may not forgive you.”

Aziraphale pulls back. “I’m not asking forgiveness from her,” he says. “I’m asking forgiveness from you.” He presses a kiss to Crowley’s wrist. “For being afraid.” His cheek. “For not choosing you sooner.” His eyelids. His fingertips. His heart.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, his voice hushed as though in prayer. “There’s nothing to forgive.”


	42. He knows

‘I love you,’ Crowley says, not with words, but with his actions, with a new book shelved between the old ones, with the procuring of Aziraphale’s favorite sweets, with his presence, always there when Aziraphale needs him.

'I love you, too,’ Aziraphale says, with his shoulder pressed close to Crowley’s, with a wide smile that echoes in his eyes upon meeting, with a blanket draped over Crowley’s sleeping form when he drifts off after a few too many drinks.

'I love you.’ Fingers tangled tightly together.

'I love you.’ A hand gently caressing a cheek.

'I love you.’ A look. 'I love you.’ A sigh. 'I love you.’ A kiss.

Unspoken, but not untold.

“I love you,” given life. Escaped from one set of lips to be caught in another, where they are weighed. Tasted. Released. “I love you, too.”

It changes nothing. The words themselves are unnecessary. Whisper them, shout them, it makes no difference.

'I love you.’ He knows.


	43. Demonic

Despite whatever Aziraphale said to the contrary, Crowley was not, had never been, and would never be ‘nice.’ He wasn’t even in the neighborhood. Sure, sometimes he rang the doorbell, but it was just so he could play ding-dong-ditch, like the true fiend he was.

He just liked seeing Aziraphale smile was all. Which meant that every gift, every favor, every treat was done entirely for selfish reasons.

He would chuckle maliciously as he stopped by the bakery, and when Aziraphale’s face lit up when presented with the box of goodies, he congratulated himself on a villainous job well done.

With every demonic miracle he performed on the angel’s behalf, he was cackling triumphantly in his head over every blush, every grateful smile.

As he watched Aziraphale eat, savoring every bite, he reveled in the victory brought about by his nefarious plans of asking the angel to dinner.

“I see,” Aziraphale said simply, after Crowley had finished explaining all this to him. “I had no idea.” The twinkle in his eye suggested otherwise.

“Yes, Angel, I’m a demon, I’m evil,” Crowley hissed. “_Evil!_”

Aziraphale nodded understandably and patted Crowley on the hand. “I realize now how mistaken I’ve been. To think, my own husband has such a black heart.”

He glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. Wait for it…

“What?! No! I do love you! I do!”

Aziraphale smiled brightly, amused at how well he could predict Crowley. “Oh, that’s a relief.”

“There! See! I did it again!” Crowley crowed. “I love you and it makes you happy, so it’s entirely self serving!”

Aziraphale feigned shock. “Impressive.”

“Yes!” And then Crowley blushed. Wickedly. “A-a-and if I kiss you then that’s temptation! So it’s evil. Dastardly!”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale agreed. “Are you going to kiss me though?”

“Y-yes! I was just getting to that! It’s all part of my diabolical plan, Angel!”

And then Crowley leaned forward and pressed his lips gently, ever so gently, against Aziraphale’s own. For despicable reasons, of course.


	44. Heartbeats

As Crowley returned to consciousness, he became aware of two things: first, the soft cotton sheets he was enveloped in were not the smooth silk ones of his own bed. Second, there was a pair of strong arms wrapped tightly around his middle holding him close to another warm body. He slowly opened his eyes to find a pile of blonde curls laying on his chest, which meant…

Which meant that everything from last night, his messy confession, the warm lips against his own, Aziraphale inviting him up to bed so that he could envelope him in his soft limbs… it had all been real.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale mumbled softly. “Stop moving.”

“Sorry,” Crowley whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, I didn’t sleep.” Aziraphale lifted his head to look Crowley in the eyes.

Crowley shuddered. It was dizzying, being the sole focus of the angel’s attention.

“Your heartbeat,” Aziraphale murmured. “It mirrors mine perfectly.”

“…Is that bad?” Crowley asked.

“Not at all, love.” Aziraphale gave him a warm smile and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose. “It’s just curious, is all. I changed the rhythm of my own, stopped and started it again, but no matter what, yours always synced back up.”

“Well, of course.” The words slipped out before Crowley even had time to think them. When his brain caught up to his mouth, he felt warmth flooding his cheeks. “Ngk. I mean…”

“What, Crowley?” Aziraphale encouraged softly. “What do you mean?”

His thoughts drifted back to those thousands of years ago, when he had slithered up next to an angel, and how he had nearly jumped as he felt his heart thunder to life in his chest. “It was you who made it beat in the first place.”

In the present, he felt his heart skip a beat and smiled, knowing Aziraphale’s had done the same.

“Oh, Crowley.” The love and adoration in Aziraphale’s gaze was enough to make Crowley melt and he felt his face grow even warmer. “I love you.”

Crowley blinked.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley felt his heart speed up, and he knew it was all him. “It’s just… That’s the first time you’ve said it.”

“My mistake, then,” Azirphale said. “After all…” He gently took Crowley’s hand and placed it above his own heart. Crowley was delighted to find that, despite the calm look on Aziraphale’s face, it kept pace with his own. “Mine matches yours, too.”


	45. Beloved

The pet name that Aziraphale finally settled on for Crowley after all the dears, darlings, dearests, and doves was beloved.

“My beloved,” he’d say as Crowley woke in the morning. “My beloved,” as he handed over a fresh mug of coffee. “My beloved,” over the continuous crashing of waves on the shore. “My beloved,” amongst the last rays of the dying light in the evening. “My beloved,” between the press of lips to fingers, to a throat, to a willing mouth. My beloved, my beloved, my beloved, a confession, a promise, a prayer.

Beloved, as though Crowley was the most important part of his world (he was.) Beloved, often repeated to make up for lost time.

How delightful it was, that each time without fail Crowley’s face would flush beautifully. He’d always cherish that look.

It was said simply because it was the truth. _You are my beloved_.

Beloved.

Beloved.

His dearly beloved.


	46. A Moment

A moment. That was all it took.

After six thousand years of baited breath and careful steps, in the end, it wasn’t some grand revelation or dramatic gesture that brought Aziraphale and Crowley closer. It was just a moment. Simple. Fleeting. A blink and you’d miss it sort of thing. 

They were in the back of Aziraphale’s bookshop, as they often found themselves, sharing a bottle of wine and laughing about something one of them had said. Because that was really what it all came down to: how much they each enjoyed the other’s company.

Sentiments such as ‘you are my world’ or ‘all that I am is yours’ were all well and good, but eventually, they’d crumble under their own weight without ‘I like you’ or ‘I like being with you’ or ‘I like waking up to you’ to hold them up.

Which was why this moment, this six thousand years in the making moment happened the way it did.

As their laughter ebbed and they struggled to catch their breath, with their eyes lit up and still grinning like a couple of fools, their eyes met, and it passed between them, unspoken, but understood. It was the feeling of things finally falling into place, a shift in the center of the world, a tumble into a new reality.

When it passed, the conversation picked up again as Crowley made some overly elaborate and drawn out metaphor for… well, Aziraphale didn’t know _what_ it was for, just that that the sound of Crowley’s voice and the wild gesticulating of his hands were all that really mattered.

It wasn’t entirely clear which one of them first breached the space between them. All they knew was that one moment they were on opposite ends of the couch, and the next they were in the middle, their sides pressed together and Crowley’s arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder as he continued talking. Two pieces finally finding their perfect fit.

There was no question as to whether or not Crowley would return to his own flat that night. There was just the certainty that wherever one of them went, the other would follow. To the bookshop, to the flat, to a little cottage by the sea, there they’d both be, side by side until the end of time.


	47. Beautiful

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale murmured as he brushed aside a flaming lock of hair.

Crowley flushed and looked away. But he knew how to get him back. “Handsome,” he countered, fingers tangling into golden curls.

It had the expected effect on Aziraphale, who turned red at the compliment. But it seemed the angel wasn’t content to leave it at that. He reached up to gently cup a bony cheek, silently asking permission before removing the pair of dark glasses. The reveal of topaz yellow eyes took his breath away, as it always did. “Stunning,” he breathed out.

In return, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hands to his lips, placing sweet, gentle kisses upon his fingers, his knuckles, his palm. The angel’s hands were rough and callused, from centuries of thumbing through pages, writing in his ledgers, and working with tools to lovingly fix the wear and tear on his precious books. “Lovely.”

Aziraphale pulled his hands away and carefully slipped them under the back of Crowley’s shirt, watching him closely for any signs of discomfort. This next part was the hardest for Crowley, he knew, just as what followed would be hardest for himself. It was difficult for two beings who had never quite fit into their respective sides to open up and let their vulnerabilities and insecurities be on display. It helped, though, that the other fully adored every part of them, even if it was difficult to hear. It was hard, after all, to accept these words which contrasted their own visions of themselves. But they could learn to do it. 

When Crowley gave him the briefest of nods, he leaned his head against his chest, giving him the reach to glide his hands further up. Crowley’s nervous heartbeat thundered in his ears as his fingers trailed along his spine. When he felt rough, twisted skin beneath his fingertips he stopped, gently massaging into the scar tissue that marred Crowley’s back, a grim reminder of the day his wings had gone up in flame, leaving them scorched and black. His heart broke for Crowley as he released a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re so gorgeous, my love,” Aziraphale promised.

A choked sound escaped Crowley as his knees gave out, putting his face level with Aziraphale’s stomach. He had tears in his eyes as he looked up, a silent question on his lips as his fingers clutched the hem of Aziraphale’s sweater. Not for the first time, Aziraphale found himself wondering how he had gotten so lucky and he nodded.

“I’m still going to kill Gabriel if I ever see him again,” Crowley muttered as he pushed the sweater up, revealing the round belly beneath. He laid his head against the warm, giving flesh and just stayed like that for a moment, simply enjoying the comfort he found there. When he pulled back he began to gently layer kisses onto the wide expanse of skin, spending extra time to appreciate the stretch marks, leaving Aziraphale feeling loved, _cherished_. “Exquisite,” Crowley said, his breath ghosting over Aziraphale’s stomach. “My soft angel.”

Yes, it would take time, but they’d learn. Together.


	48. It Was Time

It was time. Aziraphale had never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

The gentlest of smiles formed on his lips as he watched Crowley talk, only half following the tangent he had wandered down, but utterly entranced by the movement of his hands and the excitement in his eyes. He would have waited for Crowley to finish, of course, anything to prolong this moment and keep it for himself, but Crowley looked over at him and trailed off.

“What are you smiling at?” Crowley asked, because frankly, the warm, joyful look on Aziraphale’s face was entirely inappropriate for what he had been talking about.

“I love you,” Aziraphale said simply by way of an answer, that lovesick (because that’s what he was, he wouldn’t deny it) smile seemingly taking a permanent residence on his features.

“Angel, I love you, too,” (Aziraphale’s heart fluttered at how easily the words left Crowley’s lips.) “But would you _please_ pay attention?”

But Aziraphale could wait no longer.

He pulled the ring out of his pocket and dropped to one knee. “Crowley, will you marry me?”

Crowley was as eloquent as always in his immediate reaction, “Ngk, what the fuck, Angel?!”

Aziraphale laughed and gently patted Crowley’s knee. “Take your time, dearest.” They both knew the answer. The asking was just a formality.

“Yes, _obviously_, but-”

Aziraphale launched to his feet, all but throwing himself into Crowley’s lap as he kissed him and carefully slid the ring onto his finger. “Now,” Aziraphale said, after they pulled apart, as he smoothed down Crowley’s shirt where he had gripped it. “What was it you were saying about ducks?”

Crowley stared at the ring on his finger, looking dazed. “…I really don’t remember.”

“Ah. My apologies, my love, I should have waited until you’d fin-”

“Like hell, you should’ve,” Crowley growled, renewing their kiss with vigor.


	49. Being Loved

It was an old and well-known fact that Crowley had spent much of his life loving Aziraphale. _Being_ loved, however, that would take some getting used to. He had always known that Aziraphale loved him, of course, just as angels loved all living things, but after the apocalypse failed to kick off, he was surprised to learn just how much Aziraphale loved _him_ in particular, now that he was allowed to show it.

He’d wake to blue eyes and blonde curls all tied together with a fond smile and was overwhelmed by the love seeping towards him from the other side of the bed and the gentle ‘good morning, beloved’ that came from those angelic lips.

He’d sit down next to a reading angel, only to be pulled into an embrace of adoration and warmth with sweet kisses littered across his hair, whatever book Aziraphale had been reading set aside, as though Crowley were more worthy of his attention.

Fingers twined within his own. Flaming kisses pressed against his cool skin. Simple ‘I love you’s repeated whenever Aziraphale felt particularly smitten, which was often and with great frequency. 

But, Crowley found himself waiting for the catch, for the other shoe to drop, for-

“Crowley?” Aziraphale always did have a keen sense for when Crowley got lost inside his own head. “Stay with me, love. Where are we?”

Crowley looked around at their surroundings, at the cottage which bore influences of both of them equally. He took in Aziraphale’s strong arms around his middle, the lips pressed against his hair, allowing him to feel Aziraphale’s words as well as hear them. “Home,” he answered.

“Very good,” Aziraphale said. “And I love you. Do you know this?”

Aziraphale sounded so sure, so confident, that it left no room for doubt in Crowley’s mind. “Yes.”

Aziraphale placed a kiss on the top of Crowley’s head as a reward. “And I’m never…” he trailed off, waiting for Crowley to finish the thought.

“…You’re never going to leave me.” Crowley craned his neck so that he could look at that angel’s loving face. “Thanks, Angel. I needed that.”

“It’s no trouble, dearest.” Aziraphale smiled and leaned in to kiss him. “Now, what would you say to some dinner?”

“Sounds good,” Crowley agreed. “And Aziraphale?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you, too.”

“I know, darling.”


	50. Reading Hazard

Aziraphale had learned that it was very difficult to read whilst one had a demon on their lap. It wasn't such a bad problem to have, really. And in all fairness to Crowley, it wasn't his fault. He was just sitting there, looking at his phone, not being distracting, just as Aziraphale had requested.

It's just... he was so _distracting_. Just sitting there, minding his own business. It was like he was _begging_ to be kissed. So, Aziraphale did just that, leaning over and catching Crowley's lips, delightedly drinking in the surprised noise the demon made.

A few minutes later he pulled away with an exasperated huff of breath. "Crowley, dear, please. I am trying to read."

Crowley chuckled softly. "Angel, that's the fourteenth time you've done this. Would you like me to move?"

Aziraphale looked away from his book to glare down at Crowley. "Don't you _dare_."

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Tumblr to request a fic!](https://acuteangleaziraphale.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Old Habits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20740289) by [otherhawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherhawk/pseuds/otherhawk)


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